Late. Again.
Driving ten miles over the speed limit down a two-lane country road.
Looming ahead, the dreaded yellow breadbox on wheels.
Lights flashing. Sign out.
I’m a behind a fucking school bus.
Breathe. Be in the moment,
Suggests the self-help book I’ve been reading while I shit.
Breathe. Be in the moment.
First Stop.
Pink cowboy boots hit the ground running.
Instead of heading for the house,
They speed toward a faded, hickory-sided barn.
To see a pet goat named Meanness.
And the calico cat who just had a litter of kittens.
One was born without a tail.
It’s her favorite.
She’ll tell them all how she won the third grade Spelling Bee,
With the word “pineapple.”
Quarter of a mile down the road,
The wheels groan to another halt.
Primary-colored sneakers jump down.
The heels blink blue when they make contact.
They hop, blink, blink, skip, blink, blink, stumble.
A woman with a sassafras smile,
Swoops in and sets the kindergartener upright.
Then, frees him from the oppression,
Of his Ninja Turtle backpack.
Over a bowl of Kraft Mac & Cheese,
He’ll tell her about the real, live fireman who came to his class,
Less than a hundred feet or so,
The door swings open again.
At first, no feet find ground.
Then, scuffed high tops with no laces.
A chubby kid with a buzz cut ascends a steep driveway.
He drags his toes leaving ruts in the gravel.
Trudging toward what could loosely be called a home.
He is greeted by the flapping of a rebel flag,
And the growls of husky on a short chain.
He’ll tell no one about how his Daddy gets whiskey drunk,
And then beats him with a belt.
Last drop off of the day.
A pair of shiny, red ballet flats,
Lightly touch down,
And then glide up a sidewalk bordered by purple impatiens.
The blonde girl gives a longing look back.
A boy, lanky and in love, presses against the rear window.
They won’t see each other again until Monday,
Unless their paths cross at the Dollar General.
She’ll tell her Hello Kitty diary,
About clandestine kisses inside the visitor’s baseball dugout.
Wheels churn into motion.
The bus takes a right on Route 33.
I turn left toward Shaker Village.
Donna, I have always liked your writing, but in the last few months, it seems like you have gone to new depths. Your writing has become more tender and reflective. You are creating some really amazing poems.
“how his Daddy gets whisky drunk” captures a strong moment and voice. Nice.
My father and my brother were bus drivers. I was my brother’s back up driver. I only drove once for him. I had to ask each student to direct me. The last students, a high schooler told me to turn left and drive to the end of the road, not a road, but a lane with limbs scraping the sides and the top of the bus.
When I got to her house, I asked her as she got off, “Where does my brother turn?”
“He never comes down here,” she answered and ran toward the house.
Backing out that long country lane was enough to do me as a bus driver, forever.
And that story is a poem in itself. Thanks so much for reading and commenting. Have a magnificent Monday.
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