gonna rain? he asks himself
naw he says to himself
though seeing the new moon intermittently covered
with ominous gray clouds, he wonders
lookee lous with notepads and pens arrive in hordes
his fingers itch to sign, but he's cordoned off
hope ignites and dies like a struck match
travel points vanish into mirages
thick dossiers arrive in the hands of
broadly smiling counsels
he chooses his hero
adjusts darkest dark glasses
and over a couple beers
at a local hangout
he tells him i didn't do it