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Wincing in the rain

In coach no. 78-ish
of an unwilling train,
a bothered traveller, me
sits wincing in the rain

It’s an unruly collection:
about 73 cars punctuated with bicycles
I sit honking on my bike
far behind in the stream of obstacles

The raincoat covers me
but not all the digital devices
I worry getting splattered
and losing work in the crisis

Rubber-plastic smells,
smoke-coated drops,
an amused, mucky stray
the busy, bothered cops:
all links of the chain,
where I sit wincing in the rain.

A large lady in blue,
on a tiny cerulean scooter
uncertain and under-confident
ahead of an annoyed commuter:
her legs dangle on each side
throughout the snail-slow ride

and I sit wincing in the rain
with worry frying my brain
while she does what doesn’t suit her
on the tiny cerulean scooter

twenty minutes ahead,
I’ve grown horns of impatience
I honk, honk and honk
she displays sudden confidence
and scoots away at long last
for the train’s now moving fast
The road’s now clearing up
the tram’s now a TGV
and I’m loving the drops
while thinking of home and tea

The lights go red
the mind’s worrying no more,
my helmet visor’s up
though it’s beginning to pour

I’m singing out loud
a toothless old chap stares
nearby, another dangly-legged lady
for a battle ride prepares

Such creatures of habit are we:
the tram’s become a TGV,
I’ve grown to love the drops,
the greens have inspired a song,
I’ve braved the jammed lane,
but still wincing in the rain.

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