The intimate crush of the rain covered bus where I keep touching your things
Those red pouty lips come right to your hips except she keeps turning away

She waits at the bus stop, dressed against the rain. Too young looking to be so professionally dressed under the vintage males muted plaid all weather jacket. The raincoat hit's below her skirt to her damp calves. The shoulders hang slightly over hers making it look like her fathers old coat. She shakes it softly as she gets pressed into the bus. The droplets that refuse to scatter slowly soak into the once water resistant fabric and her eyes scan, imperceptibly, as she move in to stand in front of a row filing in. They all adjust to the pockets of space as the bus leaps to crawl forward and their swaying forms drunken sailors footsteps. A woman looks back scowling like a grade school teacher over the crooked line while the bus driver's gaze stretches back, as the doors open again, with the look of a high school teacher counting heads having long ago given up on lines. Smiling over formation and flow as some get up and others refill the space. Ever down, ever back. One up, one down, all back till she swings sitting into the crowd. His briefcase brushes into her and she touches his open coat gripping the vertical bar beside her.
He looks down feeling the brush against him like a tug. The tidy hair that looked like it would be soft when let down, the tiny up turned nose perched above full lips that glisten like the rain on her eyelashes when she lifted her chin. Eye level at his hips she keeps turning her head trying not to notice the admiration of the businessman before her.