By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer
Rain sloshes down in heavy sheets,
distorts our view from behind the
windows. A lady stands at the bus stop
outside. Her umbrella jolts and spasms
in her white-knuckled grip, tendons
taught as she fights to maintain control.
She doesnāt know the neighbourhood
watches her, our last form of entertainment
in the quiet hum of an unwilling reset.
We shift, restless. She stares down the
street, desperate as rain pools at her feet.
Itās a sad act playing out in front of us
but sheās the best weāve got. She must not
know the buses have been cancelled.
We found out as much before it all went
black. A vicious wind rips at her umbrella
and she reels, struggles to stay dry.
Another tug takes it down
the street. As she clambers after it,
the lights come back to life.
The TV flickers on.
We turn our heads, resume our lives.
Her temporary distraction no longer needed,
forgotten as a blushing newscaster fumbles
to catch up on everything we missed.
