Drenched

As I was standing this morning at 8:05AM on the Winthrop bus-stop in the rain with my little grey octagon heaven floating above me while I held it up on a silver scepter as though I were God and were allowing it to rain everywhere except on me,
as I noticed the rainwater creeping up my pant-leg like water up a thirsty plant-stem toward my calves and later toward my kneecaps,
as my white shoes turned grey cream,
as I watched the street puddles grow and the cars cut them with their wheels and the waves fly up on both sides like the Red Sea,
as the world passed by in indifference, in their cars, on their feet, under their plaid, pink, blue, spotted and striped umbrellas,
as I stood there, by myself, under my arcylic sky, the edges a little torn and drops trickling dissonantly from the tips of the metal skeleton frame, I thought:

what a perfectly wonderful metaphor for my life.