Late on 38th

The bus is late on 38th.
I wait with two who clean houses,
our small umbrellas repelling
the rain from our heads,
our coats and shoes drenched.
One grips her handle with such force
the red of blood nearly glows,
an ember of her inner fire.
Her feet move as if organ pedals
to an unheard and lively tune.
The other stands straight as a pin
trying to hide from the squall
and wonders aloud if people
can smoke in the rain,
and I look at the first woman’s hand,
fists like glowing embers,
squeeze my umbrella tighter
just above the rising hook,
and start a little shuffle,
feel my fingers burning, burning.

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife. He has contributed to Willows Wept Review, Heartwood, Bluebird Word, and Gold Man Review.