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.