A serpentine line of traffic
lazes towards rain-slicked
on ramps.
Below the river, swollen,
and the water buffalo pedestrians
bracing under the bridge underbellies
and store front awnings,
no choice left but waiting
Commuters
lining up in
rush-hour congestion,
remind me of the colored construction paper circles
I made in grade school:
caterpillar length reading lists
each separate circle representing a book I had read.
These cars seem so much like circles
their many colored bumpers touching.
Each separate driver inside inching forward
carrying with him or her
a daily story
from the stacked curves of the highways
towards home.
Rounded mackerel sky above continues melting.
Oozing profusely.
Washing down pavement and pothole.
Splashing tires and stick figure humans.
Fog fingerlets rolling in around
occasionally obscuring the city
from complete view.
I watch from the bus.
perched high in my seat,
smile.
So agreeable.
Observing the ways of the weather.
Rain feels so much simpler than
Midwestern winters.
Everything there blanketed in
from late October until sometimes mid-April.
Shifting focus
I begin to sketch the back
of the bus driver
into memory.
His broad shoulders
are taut lines
tense with concentration.
So unlike me.
Dazzled by the
rhythym of windshield wipers.
Twin lulling pendulums carrying me
back to
some old watercolor daydreams
mixing and falling
in with the puddling
of unending showers.
Where I trickle down
to fade
into the cracked sidewalks
of my past.
Copyright March 15 2012 All Rights Reserved By Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo of Tilt-a-World