The rain came without warning

The rain came without warning.

I had nothing on me, no coat—

just wet denim from the knees down

and two long blocks to go.

I found a seat and sat there,

cold fabric pressed to my thighs,

that weight that settles in and stays,

that doesn't compromise.

Across from me a woman, dry,

her coat still holding shape.

Her phone was lit. I watched the water

collect beneath my seat, escape

toward the center of the car.

I didn't move. There wasn't

a better place to be. When I stood,

the shoe sole, honest,

squeaked once on the linoleum.

She looked up. I walked out wet,

the denim dark below the knee,

the cold not finished yet.