The School Bus

fear has a coaxing human way.

like your bus friend sitting next to you

who loves your hand whispering,

“hold on to me. i know where's home.”

 

a friend, nearly steady, 

he arrives only with terror or her siblings.

else he is like smoke :

addictive intoxicant but disappearing.

 

no matter my age when we share this seat

my feet shrink to their saddle shoe days.

professionals say, “regression.”

i say, "holding hands without gripping."

 

my eyes maintain a seeing-ness

that listens without digesting.

even so young I know

over this hill I will get off.