Saturday, April 25, 2015

April 25

The Rain is the One Who Owes You a Fucking Apology

The sun lurked right on the edge
of the thunderheads, its golden gaze turning
the downpour to piss. The bus shelter was crammed
with drenched transients and their sopping sacks.
The rain had stopped by the time my bus arrived,
but the gutters were flooded and the streets were still slick
and turning right onto Mississippi, the bus smashed
into a parked car. The scrape and tear of metal
was awful. The car's front bumper
was ripped clean off, its front left corner
crunched and shredded. There was no
apparent damage to the bus. Unlike me,
when I collided with you, the driver stopped,
asked if everyone was okay, and got on the phone
with the dispatcher. He didn't just barrel forward,
pretending nothing had ever happened,
never looking back at the debris strewn on the wet
asphalt in his wake.

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