I could have looked away.
But it would still have happened.
He had mistimed his suited, leather brogue-d jog.
The swelling gutter puddle had
trouble on its mind.
Buses are faster these days.
I think that’s what threw him off.
He drew level with the black water.
Jogging, hesitating, now sprinting.
The bus arrived on time.
The soaking could not have been more.
Almost as if he wanted it.
If he had, he could not have timed it better.
Even his hat was wet.
He stopped sprinting.
Turned and looked at the big red bus now long gone.
He held his hands out to the side.
Looked down at himself.
A look to the sky.
A religious man, I thought.
Perhaps, no longer.
Maybe that soaking was the last straw.
That shattered his faith.
God hates me, he thought.
I couldn’t be wetter and now
I don’t even have God.
I felt bad that part of me
enjoyed his dilemma.
If he had avoided the soaking would
he still be happy with God?
Was he ever?
Was this all that was ever standing inbetween
this man and his faith in the almighty?
A large puddle and a bus?
A drenched suit and hat?
Perhaps he was just cursing the rain clouds?
This is a good place to sit, I thought.
I’ll get another pint.
July 18th, 2013 at 12:54 pm
I love this poem because it resonates with how we all have a little voyeur in us.