on my chest. Mornings, now, I turn the shower hotter
and hotter. If only the UPS truck would stop,
the E.L. Fudge truck, anything but the busdriver
who opens his doors, saying,
‘Nother one’s comin.’ It’s rush hour, Baby.
We are only cargo,
only the blunt hum and, then, settling
of plastic crates filled with cookies
trying to catch up to ourselves at every stop.
Last week my father hit a median
in his Wonder Bread truck in Hammond, Indiana
and was fired. In the Starbucks across from my office,
my mouth winces and it is confused for gratitude –
gums receding like leaves shriveled from their branches.
Translucent as my reflection in this storefront, I will soon cross,
march past the floral landscaping and fountains
that, in front of the building, make its walls
seem lucid and natural as water.
