Bus stop

Clasping hands under the slate gray sky,
Drops of rain coming down our faces
In rivulets that open up and get tasted,
We navigate to the bus stop.
The puddles wide and loose up to the edges of our shoes,
Our umbrellas held aloft like Dumbo ears,
We take teaspoon steps and marsupial hops
Past the men in buttoned up jackets
Shouting, Get outta the way!
Zig-zagging along and making all this racket,
In youth that does not last
Long after the sun burns up the past.