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.