Passers in the Rain

Bent, hobbled, driving hard against the rain,

The lone man stumbles.

Falling in pain.

And he plummets face-first into the mud.

The next man to pass that way,

Was lively, animated, gesturing with his hands.

Sheltering his phone as he walked away,

Heading indoors.

The third was a woman,

With an umbrella.

Trudging through the rain, she held a soda can,

Contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

Then was another, facing the sky,

Red rimmed eyes, closed.

Down that pock-marked face, tears fall and lie,

Crying just because she could.

One can find out a lot by watching people,

And sitting inside my cozy nook,

I watched the passers in the rain,

Writing in my book.

"The best alchemists don't turn lead into gold; they turn the world into words." -William H. Gass

Freshly Dusted