Female gutter reflection

mixes with sky blue sky
in opaque rain water
palate post-storm.

She waits for orange
hand of hesitation to transition
into a permissive white-bulb man.

If you stand in front of a puddle,
she reasons, you may get hit
but you won't get wet—

an important distinction
when another eight aimless hours
await. She does the transpo hub shuffle—

meets the buses,
introduces herself,
rides to the end of a line,

and back again.
Tries to decide which route
best suits a Tuesday afternoon.

When darkness signals
sleep—the seductive
killer of time.