An old lady is trudging through the mud with
rubber boots and floppy breasts slapping,
flapping, under a wet, wool coat.
It’s raining and I want a fucking cup
of coffee and sure as hell don’t want
to talk to her.
She’s humming - something jovial - and
it pisses me off even more that someone
could humm when they’re covered in sludge.
Naive, I guess, but I’m still pissed.
Her coat buttons are huge, like a
stoplight down her potbelly. I pretend not
to see her and look to the road, hoping
she’ll walk by and leave me alone because
all I want is a fucking cup of coffee.
Her boots slide in the grass behind me
and every step is soggy suction. She
stops walking but not humming. I grit
my teeth. I don’t know the song.
The rain gets fat and loud and I
wonder what the hell she’s doing
back there. I don’t turn around, in
case there’s still a chance of not
talking to her. She taps my arm.
Your book bag is unzipped.
she says, pointing with a drippy finger.
Your books are all wet.
And with that she starts humming again
and turns away in the rain.