Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
'Good luck', says one barista to another who goes off to clean a bathroom.
A sniffler, a constant sniffler, wearing big salmon-pink headphones.
Two (subsequently embarrassed) baristas running into opposite sides of a swing door at the same time.
A rusty old Huffy parked just at the edge of a stand of trees.
A graying postal worker, sitting on a blanket in the grass before her apartment, her uniform unbuttoned, as one loosens one's tie at the end of a workday. She is writing.
A dog, of uncertain intentions, but blundering garrulous doglike velocity, called back by its owner to the door from which it escaped to meet me.
In advance of the throngs that will descend upon them on Sunday—the annual street fair—the funeral home on Grand has fenced its flowerbeds off with little more than a white cord, as if to say, meekly: look.
Their talk lulls momentarily as they work, and then, one barista says to the other: 'I got chased by a raccoon the other night!'.
'Looking out for one's own interests is no substitute for belief.'