If you dig chainsaw, you might dig bus, especially the luxury coach variety. They roam the alley below my window when I'm being like Brenda with coffee (tea in my case) and a book of poems first thing in the morning (although I suppose she gives H. a peck for the real first thing in the morning).
From Alison Pick, The Dream World: "Nothing moves, / until a shadow lifts a finger, as if in thought" (22).
The driver--excuse me, operator--likes to idle. Get out, walk around his bus, pull open a few hatches and doors. Idle, idle, idle. After a while he pulls out and ahead, stops, backs up to the northeast door, sunlit, of the hotel across the alley.
Next, I no sooner observe that my teapot's a rock pigeon, strutting its spout, when tea spills and, I swear, stains the shape of a rock pigeon onto my green plastic table.
"The game binds me tight to the here and now" (30). The bus, more idling, waits for a team--women with hair tied back and gym bags.
Loads and drives away.
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