Waiting

by Renée Masur

I stand outside this coffee shop

as rain batters the pavement.

It spits up the puddles –

looks just like

the ground is raining.

I spark up this cigarette.

At my feet, a soggy mutt

whimpering at his captor –

a parking meter.

Inside, a guy at his laptop

eyes fixed to the screen. He barely notices

the coffee set in front of him.

A girl, tapping at her cellphone;

she can’t contribute to a conversation

even when her friend

is in front of her.

The girlfriend, sipping her latté,

shunning my smoke break,

but she is warm

and I

am wet.

Low-pitched squeals erupt from the dog.

He searches through the windowpane,

sits, then rapidly stands, in a puddle

of piss and rain, which crawls up my pant legs.

I shiver; he shakes, flinging water.

I toss the butt

in the wake of the wet dog.

The people here are so preoccupied

with their digital conversations,

their grandé cappuccinos,

their inboxes,

I wonder if they notice

there’s a rainbow across the mountain.

They’ve trapped themselves inside this place

so I trap myself outside with a dog.

We both wait together in the rain

until our owners retrieve us

for the walk home.