Going home in the rain

I am never so much myself as when I am
riding in a taxi, bus or train in the rain.
I am swimming in contained space moving through water,
I am tucked in a dry pocket and peering out.
I could be any one of those people outside:
That girl rushing beneath a broken umbrella,
that boy carefully navigating puddles with his muddied feet.
I could be any of those people in the street,
making their way, chasing taxis, buses, and trains.
Instead, I am very much who I am indeed:
someone watching a wet world in a state of dryness,
someone not out in the rain.

For Eric John, who said my previous entry reads like a poem.


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