Transfer

The rain was hard enough to drown the street.

She sat on the bench, shaking,

her mascara running in gray rivers down her neck.

She asked if the 42 was still on the route,

if anyone was actually coming to the stop.

I looked at the empty asphalt, the heavy sky,

and the way her hands wouldn't stay still.

"Nobody is coming," I said.

I meant the bus, but it landed like a slap.

Now, when the floor of the bus is slick with mud

and a black umbrella drips between my feet,

I see her flinch again.

Sometimes the truth is just a sharp tool

we use when we are too tired to be kind.