If it hadn’t been raining
I would have gone to Spain this morning,
I only live an hour away,
sat at an outdoor café sipping sherry.

Dreaming of the vixen,
with pellet riddled ears
the one that only eats domestic fowl
and plays with rabbits, under shady, silent oaks.

Sunk into reveries
and lucidly understood life’s enticing mystery,
till awaken by an irate waiter shouting
that I can’t sleep under the table.