BUS STOP

When I could escape from the prison of school, I was free. Isadora Duncan

There were miles between us
as we stood, face forward
and silent, at dawn.

Bursting to play
in fresh fields
to skip between furrows,

instead we marched
into a tunnel
of orange steel,

sat in camouflaged
green seats that obscured
our differences,

bounced beside chattering
geniuses-to-be
clutching crisp new report cards.

Single file we dismounted
into bleak grey rooms
with bulbs for light,

ingested stale lessons,
watched big slow hands
circle hours

for twelve long years.
Grades passed
like centuries.

Take my advice. Pass by.
There is no life at this stop.
Send your children to plant their dreams.

Grades disappear with years.
What is left
is what you love.


Judith Pordon

Poetry on Family

Poems about Children

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