Work Days
Feb 27 2025
I watch the commuters
on this grey blustery day
scurry purposefully by
in their bulky overcoats
and unflattering hats.
It’s a wind tunnel between the towers
and they lean into it,
shoulders hunched and chins tucked,
coats
buttoned-up to the neck.
The faces I can make out
look grim,
teeth clenched and jaws set
as one does in pain.
The snow
that fell lightly,
leaving the streets a frosted confection
the night of the storm,
is, by the morning rush
grimy and soiled.
And now, has turned to slush,
while the wet stuff still coming down
doesn’t last
adding to the soggy mess.
Commuters slosh through it
in gumboots or galoshes
stained with salt.
There’s even an umbrella
looking oddly out of place;
no match for the wind,
it flaps
with a wet slapping sound
like a madly luffing sail.
City folk, I chuckle,
who think umbrellas work in snow,
and that fancy leather shoes
or chi-chi high heels
are perfectly adequate.
I sit, waiting for the bus.
No rush
because what’s to be done but wait
when the bus is late
as it usually is.
The schedule
in definitive print
on the official city sign
seems as theoretical as theology,
medieval scholars
debating how many angels can dance
on the head of a pin,
rumba
on the edge of a dime.
Work days
and winter weather.
A heated bench would be nice.
A warm sun
even better.
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