BUS
The first busdriver was a gigantic lilywhite-haired Indian man who took my ticket but didn’t remember who I was in Pittsburgh (this was personally disheartening). When I get on the bus, I notice a burrowing Asian girl covered in a blanket, which is how she remains until Cleveland. The bus leaves at pitch-dark. I settle in, and when the bus leaves I don’t stare longingly at Baltimore or waste time with a dramatic goodbye, because I don’t need to, because it’s understood. No words needed. I have with me a silly-bright booklight, and I read a little book I found at work, Crow Planet, about crows and urban naturalism. It’s set in Seattle, to which I think, well look at that. And I made my way out of the land of manly deeds and womanly words in a gliding silver cylinder in the middle of the night, eyes shut.
