She missed her bus again

Prudence is being blown down 152^nd by a strong wind, her hair and perfume whipped around her person, like a silk scarf. The traffic barrels passed her; all clatter and speed in the light autumn rain. She has her hands plunged deep into her coat pockets with the wool collar turned up. Her canvas shoes are soaking and the water has crept up the back of her jeans leaving the wet denim dark all the way to her mid-calf. Passing the kingdom hall she reads the crooked letters on the board “God answers all knee mail.”