11-17-2008 Another One Rides the Bus

The dew-slick dawn wriggles with yellow chirps
and rumbles. We sit thistle gangly – spines
slouched so that we might match the huddled slurps
of youth – our long legs too stiff to entwine

the journey’s vastlessness. Without the shiver
that rides the stubborn twisting morning, we
are nothing more than hot breath on a sliver
of window. Nestling frost rapidly

obscures the backwards letters of those names
we should have written in fiery runes. No chants
will spring from hooded lips. No gnashing flames
will gather back the smoke. No girls will glance

at fading shadows. Never will we bend
the pliant incompliance of the wind.