Knee-Deep, Same Fare

By nine the street was gone and a brown river was in its place. The rickshaw pullers rolled their trousers, tested the depth with a foot, and carried on, because the alternative is not working, and not working is not an option available to any of them.

It clips over the front. It covers you from the collarbone down. It does absolutely nothing for your head, your feet, or your dignity, and yet under it you are somehow dry enough, and you arrive, and it works, and nobody has ever improved on it.