I was standing at the bus stop, just a stretch of sidewalk where the stop used to be. It was there yesterday. Must’ve been taken away during night. Or this morning. I'm rarely up before afternoon and can't sleep until sunrise.
I am not a happy person, but I often feel happiness. At the sight, for example, of the post-sunset sky, a true royal blue behind the City’s high-rise architecture. It is fleeting. The time and the happiness. I read the Buddhists somehow come to expect and accept, radically, they say, through medication, this strangeness.
I ride that bus line so often I know which awnings are new in Chinatown. If you know Chinatown, which you do, that ought to be impressive. I like this part of the route. I like to look out the window at the industry. A man dumping live fish into a giant bucket, they were probably caught this morning. I like the pig bodies and chicken bodies hanging in the red heat lamps in the windows. I like all the pink plastic grocery bags. My corner bodega uses black plastic but in Chinatown they’re all pink.
I love you.