Thursday. The Old Bell on Rembrandtplein.
A pint of Guinness taken for the rain
and one because the wan electric fire
won’t warm, and one to help me stave off dire
poems that I’ve been reading ’cause I can’t
compose their betters, stopping in mid-rant
to glom the middle distance where my glasses
of Guinness focus, conjuring up lasses
inviting gambols in the hops and mead.
It really isn’t sentencing I need
nor parsing, paraphrasing or strong drink.
I need the rain to stop, the sea to shrink
and show a bridge that I can walk across
to beaches blessed with sand of old-pearl gloss
and damsels who appreciate my song
especially on these days the notes are wrong
and the rains repel me, poisoning the well
of songs I want to sing in The Old Bell.