Forecast?

Suit in the corner,
 Tie loosened off some,
 Folding his papers,
 Turns around, announces:
“Looks like it’s
 Going to rain.”
Sole-thin
 Cowboy boots,
 Balanced on the
 Edge of a bar-stool
 Looks into his
 Amber glass.
“Ain’t likely
 This time o’ year.”
Slow, drink-studied drawl.
 Seen-better blonde,
 Behind the counter,
 Been wipin’ the same
 Shot-glass for thirty minutes
 Is thinking -but quietly –
“In my neighbourhood, boys,
 It’s been raining for years.”