The weight of my breasts settles heavy

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.