Riding the #64 bus at 8:06 am,
a woman daydreams, her eyes barely open
a man in a surgical mask covering his chin
bites his nails, while two small children translate
the motion of the bus into soft humming.
A teenage girl takes selfies from high angles
until she’s jerked forward as the bus lurches into a stop
at one of only a few along the route.
Out my window, just beyond the stone wall
I am surprised to see the likeness of Elvis
in the spring bloom of a willow oak.
Not a spectacle in a white jumpsuit, more like a bust.
No glittering gems or blue suede shoes, or even legs.
But the rustling visage of the king of rock-n-roll,
right down to his signature sideburns and an inverted curl
hanging on the forehead of the tree revealed in its leafy branches.
The bus exhales and resumes its sluggish exertion up the hill.
I retrace the celebrated contours in my mind
as we pull past the leafy visage, and my cheerful recognition
of Elvis, his swiveling hips join in the view in my mind’s eye,
and uh-huh, “Stuck on You” is the anthem of the day