one-legged pigeons drink what leaked
from the coach now taking me to Thunder Bay.
to watch them, I crane my neck so hard that
if I’d been wearing a dry suit for an ocean dive
the neck would’ve burst and I’d be colder
than I am now in this hyper-air-conditioned cabin.
only my shirt collar echoes back
silver thread in the thick pin stripe glinting –
the glass is so dirty on the outside
the glass is so fogged-up on the inside
but even the sight of that collar revolts me –
the first Greyhound in line is cut loose
leaves slowly – its driver, I noticed earlier, was
sweating
profusely, was bald with the face of a baby who might
win beauty contests – then we go and the pedal pushes
betray an urgency like that of the pigeons drinking
an urgency both pneumatic and pointless
for downtown Toronto thirsts day and night for
traffic.
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