transit bench

it rained until four a.m. now i walk down to the transit bench. my work boots weigh ten pounds each. the cold yard dirt turned to thick paste and it clings to the rubber soles. i scrape my right foot against the curb. a chunk falls into the wet gutter. a stray dog watches me from across the avenue. it has one bad eye. the bus is late. i light a cigarette and look down. half a field is stuck to my feet.