Bus Stop Soaker

No poetic mist, no cleansing sheen.

Just a cold, mean sheet of water, obscene

in its suddenness. Walking from the bus,

thin jacket already stuck to me, a fuss

of damp hair plastered to my cheek.

The laundromat sign, a sickly pink streak

in the blur. Water pours off the overhang,

smelling of wet street and exhaust, a tang

of something tired. My cheap umbrella

strains, a sad, inverted fella

against the wind, ready to give up its ghost.

This isn’t tears. It’s just being soaked. At most.