Route 42

The man in the wool coat is gone,

dropped off at 4th where the sidewalk

is slick with a week of gray rain.

He left the umbrella hooked

to the chrome of the seat ahead,

a black bird with its wings folded tight.

I watch the water gather

on the ribbed rubber of the floor.

It makes a small, oily pool

that slides toward my boots

every time the driver brakes too hard.

I could tell him, I suppose.

But the engine is loud, and I’d rather

watch the puddle grow

until it touches the tip of my toe.