This is the introverted part of the day,
when the city's rush is muted by the rain,
it's sound hushed by the spray
from tires on the pavement,
whispering their agreement.
Umbrellas, bright as flowers,
bob along the street,
Sprung from a garden of people
cringing inside their coats.
Heads down, strides choppy as they
proceed to the day's work,
they rarely look around as they
"connect" with a disembodied other,
closer to voices than to people.