Late

My future husband can’t see me like this,
At least until we have kids,
So of course that means I have to press this mess before class
Knowing I don’t have the time.
But to be fashionably late
Is cool when we go to the clubs,
I just hope my teacher understands
I’m running late.

Middle part with bone straight strands,
My hands feeling the silk of crinkle free locks.
Finally able to step out the door,
A tear from heaven falls from the sky
And into my hair.
Precipitation and no-perm don’t mix
So now I gotta go back for an umbrella
And pray that the humidity isn’t hungry for a foreign body
To clench on to.
I’m running late.

Get to the bus stop and watch as it passes me
Simultaneously splashing me with dirty water
That should be in the sewer
Ruining my new kicks that I pulled out the box.
Ruining what was left of a positive attitude.
Ruining what was left of my hair.
A car slows and the window rolls down,
Revealing the bedraggled me to the immaculate he.
“Want a ride to class?” he asks,
I get in the front seat
Feeling the heat of this
Embarrassment.
He doesn’t seem to notice.