In The City, sunlight turns the air to melted ice-cream
sending city bankers to the ale house for their lunch
to souse the fires with Staropramen. Thermometers pop
at the sound of the trading bell and seeping buboes
weep in the underarms of short sleeved linen shirts.
This one, three sheets gone, makes a gamble he can drink
the afternoon dry. The afternoon responds with rain.
