Waterlogged

The bus went through the standing pool,

a wall of gray against the glass.

I’m sitting like a soaking fool

and watching all the wet houses pass.

The denim’s heavy on my skin,

clinging cold behind the knees.

The water’s trying to get in,

brought down by a sudden, sharp breeze.

The hallway heater’s dead and cold.

I peel the fabric from my thigh.

It’s a weight I have to hold

until the morning makes it dry.