Icy needles cease before the bucket is filled.
Dressing with eyes on the clock.
Bursting through the door like a riot squad.
Legs pumping, slipping, sliding
– rain-washed tarmac
shines like the Milky Way.
Accelerating as frantically
as a gold medal favorite in fourth.
Lungs desperately dragging oxygen
from diesel stained fog.
At the lights,
the bus is as still
as the corpse in the storm water drain.
Mercifully the doors fold open.
Aeons into the journey,
the work cancellation message arrives
as undetected as a ninja.