Ode to a Splash from a Passing Car


Downpour at dusk
You meet corner
Hey, there, Corner!

Light changes, "Don't walk."
Car 4th behind a left-turning one
switches to its right lane,
accelerates, meets puddle
Hey, there, Puddle!
just before you do.

Water wakes up, leaps
see it for a second before it falls
your distraction proving your destruction.

Too slow in using the umbrella as shield
(they never taught that in gym)
you and your new suit, your interview suit,
are soaked in a most visible way
should there be a passer-by
Hey, there, Passer-by, who can't stop laughing!

Your jacket much darkened, hangs heavy.
Your pants cling to your skin.
The once-vibrant colors of your silk striped tie
bleed into your white shirt,
formerly starched crisp, now
a transparent sog.

Your eyebrows drip.
Your over-the-calf sheers stick to your shins.
Your wingtips squish
Hey, there, Squish!

Your suit,
no longer presentable in a traditional sense,
actually transcends;
it shines, and you're fine.
Better than buttons,
your cufflinks withstand water,
whereas you, my wet friend
- Hey, there, Wet Friend! -
thrive on it.