Glass and Grime

The bus is forty minutes late again

and salt is eating through my leather soles.

I’m standing in a curtain of the rain

that fills the street with black and jagged holes.

A black sedan goes flying through the slush,

a wall of water hits me in the face.

The city doesn't bother with a hush

or any kind of mercy for this place.

A kid is holding open the heavy bank door,

his hand is small against the polished brass.

A man walks through and stares down at the floor

and watches all the dirty minutes pass.

In the gutter, an umbrella lies,

its ribs are broken like a picked-at wing.

It shivers as the gray wind starts to rise,

a useless and a heavy-hearted thing.