Little Fists Hollow

On my walk, I would envy the school bus kids. 
You know, the ones who lived long enough 
 
to warrant a ride. They were always together. 
Laughing. Their crisp, multi-colored heads 
 
bobbing like so many apples. Newly tall 
enough to see from the window… until I 
 
realized that there was just one faded yellow 
bus and she was also alone… each child the only 
 
in their seat with a lonely lunch tote, squish-hidden 
by a single brown bag already soggy with the shame 
 
of obscuring its insides. And what looked like laughter 
was only the bouncing of their curly heads on a poorly 
 
paved road—little fists hollow, already clenched below.

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