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Every morning the school bus

comes gathering down the road

like a carpet sweeper


Think about it, twelve long years,

ink stained pews, corridors of boredom,

wheels spinning round in neutral


Harvesting particles of presumptions

about the world —according to Euclid,

Miss Fairpenny, Mr. Chalkdust


Outside, dust motes dance with butterflies,

the sun performs four thousand overtures

on themes of fishing rods, haystacks, tree houses


As over horizons to the east, under-tens

fill matchboxes, sort rice, pack sardines

and bind firecrackers into strings


Little fingers growing calloused learning adult ways,

little minds wrapped, as if in foot binding

protected from the wild sun-strewn days outside

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© Johnmichael Simon



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