Businessmen (II)

Beneath the storm, they huddle tight,
With thoughts unspoken, words contrived,
Each believing they hold the light,
The one immortal, yet alive.

But as the seasons shift their ways,
So do their thoughts, like garb they change,
The finest views, like fleeting rays,
Are lost in words of shallow range.

Beneath umbrellas moods do turn,
The streets are drenched in dreams and brine,
Sulfur’s scent where rivers churn,
And all predict, as though divine,

The sun, the rain, the winds, the air,
No mid-seasons left, they declare,
That August vexes beyond compare,
Life drips from eaves with little care.

They fear the flood, yet still they herd,
A flock of damp, conflicting minds,
Beneath the station bar, absurd,
Cursing wine, salt, and nutshell grinds.

Their words but tools for empty talk,
Without true place, without true sound,
They speak of weather’s idle walk,
And TV’s dull and vacant round,

While plastic laughter fills the room,
Briefcases clutched in shallow gloom,
And outside, the downpour’s might
Is drowned by banter, devoid of light.