Waiting Umbrellas

By Phyllis Stewart-Ruffin

The downpour tap danced on umbrellas that shielded the morning rush hour’s bad attitudes. The bus was late. Again.

Finally, the roar of a tired motor preceded the bus doddering around a bend. Cigarette butts and candy wrappers rode a wave onto the sidewalk as the packed bus braked. The group huddled at the door.

“Move back to let others on!” the driver shouted to passengers already bunched at the white line.

“Please,” a young man yelled through the unopened door, “I’ll lose my job if I’m late again!”

The bus pulled off. A dozen open mouths retreated under their umbrellas.