Schoolbus—

Schoolbus—

You come in the morning

before I even wake.

I say a little prayer

for those youths with higher stakes.

I roll back over in my bed,

happy to be free of that place;

I hope to god some little ones

make my same mistakes.

Schoolbus—

You return in the evenings,

and are ever so prompt,

your rules, routines, and rituals—

for no one they will be stopped.

You run like clockwork, rarely stopping,

never for a storm of snow or rain,

and for not an unruly boy,

but for our safety— with every train.

Schoolbus—

Sometimes I’m returning too,

and I end up behind you.

What starts with groans of tardiness

quickly turns to dreams and admiration

when I see the only difference is the number on the side

while kids still live out life’s rotation.

Schoolbus—

I can smell you,

the leather, the books, the diesel.

I watch them and remember that ignorance,

learning what was and wasn’t lethal.

Do discussions with friends of parents departed,

equate to the weight of a boy pulling my hair?

“But it’s because he likes you!” They said.

I say another prayer.

Schoolbus—

Protect them for me, would you?

Do you remember those days?

When I’m not near you

it’s easy to recall only a haze.

But you’re everywhere,

spreading like wildfire and clovers!

The world in its entirety

you’ve almost taken over.

You’re almost there now,

please keep going and going.

A fantastical, hopeful world—

to them that’s what you’re showing.

And to us, too—

the ones who used to know you.

When we get to stop and see them playing, screaming, laughing, talking,

in your windows see-through.

Schoolbus.