Yellow School Bus
by Ken Hada

On rainy mornings too
the big bus crawls
to a squeaky stop
the creaking sound
of a door opening
a strange yellow world.
Cautiously you climb
the stairs one step
at a time, like a puppy
lost in a crowded pen
your eyes careen
confusing horizons
scanning here or there
until the driver’s call
– your father’s hand
touching you forward.

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