from "Company"

At the top of a hill each morning,

I wait for the bus by the donut store.

Its pink sign looks hot,

curls, like a rope, a stem to a brain.

You turn toward a jade

at the height of your neighborhood,

stop at a light in its gut.

The sun starts to seep up,

reaching all grasses and grooves of the city.

A white bus with black windows passes.

A few minutes later, the city bus arrives like a room.

It crawls warm and dull to the west edge,

breathing its heat, a few baby hands

warming wide glass.

The billboard at my stop displays a large number to call.

A man walks his sniffing dog below it,

sharp legs brushing wild onion.

At the base of the hill,

I enter my code,

push the gray gate open,

allow the worn loop of my bag

down my arm, walk to my station.

I drop the metal end of a hose

into a bucket, turn the tough faucet.

Traveling after the sound,

the cold rushes out

full force from the rubber,

breaking into itself, interrupting and filling

the round plastic space.

Hungry, I pick up the water.

Source: PoetryNow (2018)