I
hinggge and hissss
at every red
where all that is smaller
than I
come to screeching halts
before bumping nose to ass
And those that are smallest
are the only
smalls I stop for

I bend every corner
like I’m trying to stretch it
Break it
Make a hole in it
Rip it
Make myself a cringe-worthy memory
They dread my visits

And I spin
like a stalling toy top
about to lay furiously
but passively
lazily
to its side

ready to die
I squeak and rust
with every movement
because every mile
is a protest

my face
a
bright
yellow
warning
morning

my mouth
open wide
as I eat your children
frappe
and
crush
with every
bump

before I spit them out
just a tad
influenced by
exteriors you have
no
control
over

– Rachel R. Vasquez, 2/7/2010

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

PS: I hate school buses with a passion. Rode them as a kid and I think they’re terrible…