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In the middle of it
I fold myself between cold bodies
on the narrow-roofed bench for a bus stop
while the rain pounds a madness
and my feet know it straight through
socks sopping and ready to bunch in wet lumps
with my first step-but not yet
while to my right, a woman reads on pages spotted
in eggs of wet transparency-
my over-the-shoulder read is useless today-
words cross-hatch words bled-through
while a man slumps frustration on my left,
eyes closed behind glasses-those two tiny storm clouds-
and his fingers are left tangled
through a no-good dripping handkerchief.
My
purse sags a puddle on my thighs
while each drop spreads before me, breeding
with another to multiply unrecognizable-I can see only sheets
falling smooth walls-no longer a rhythm
while bodies in the distance
weave patterns perfected, as if
some spots are drier than the rest
while even still, I know
more urban heads stalk unshielded and unaffected
and I stare-
this storm is only happening to me.
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