Puddle Prism

The bus brakes sighed.

I stepped outside.

The street was slick,

the pavement died.

A oily sheen

on standing rain.

A sudden bloom,

again, again.

Like scattered oil,

a broken glass,

all greens and blues

that swiftly pass.

A rainbow stain,

a dirty gleam.

A fleeting shift,

a waking dream.