Slick

The bus is twenty minutes late again.

The rain is a cold, persistent stain.

I look at the gutter where the water flows,

and watch how a hidden rainbow grows.

A spill from a truck, a shimmer of oil,

making a swirl in the street's dirty soil.

It’s purple and gold on a bed of black sludge,

the only bright thing that the sky wouldn't smudge.