Discarded Rain

Early morning, pouring.
homeless man at the bus stop
speaks to me
but when I start to answer
he bursts out singing
about a rainy night in Georgia.
The notes climb up his soggy nose,
bounce off into the sky.
Suddenly he crouches on the sidewalk,
rolls his pants down to his knees,
still singing,
squats,
relieves his aching mind.
I flee to the next stop,
lose my umbrella to the rain.
When I board the bus,
old man occupies a front-row seat.
Pant legs hug his ankles.
I slip away at Lexington Avenue,
hunch my shoulders against the rain,
burst out singing
about Georgia.