the clouds seem to give way for enough beauty
to offer other than rain and darkness, a possibilty
silver and gold lined, for the eyes
yet as you walk or sit
you know it is bound to happen
long lines of cars listless
like a leftover loaf
inside, screaming children who want to run
women restlessly switching between radio stations
men nodding behind the windshield
and you, between the bus chair and the novel in your lap
there is something about forced waiting
like there is about rain, it pains the head harder
a tinted shade of purple
nothing happens, no one moves and yet
time is happening;
life swinging and swishing like raindrops
whizzing between the points of destiny
A to B, B to A, where there should never be a space
to be forced to stop
behind a checkpoint in the rain.
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