Coming down the hill this morning. I saw some grass in a bag with a latch on the rag. I came up to it, said hi, made my peace and left. Goodbye.
Man at the bus stop said he was painting houses. Gray paint. White wash. Jeans rolled up and bus’s rolling down. Like rain hitting the window, splat. And the people bust out two doors like pregnant woman with an extra flap. Trapped. Pouring out in spoonfulls of sugar. Sweet southern style. I was drowning in something slow.
Gotta get in there. And I did. Moving metal, here I come. To the people who live up from the quicker run. Before I get down, I gotta go up. Rolling on and on past the double door factory and past the pond. Nature? City. Monster? Kitty.
I revved to the end -when the doors opened, I was caught up in the bend. Switch to the other side! I heard the call, but the hill wasn’t so far up back then.