School buses lumber back to school. It's fall:
A season's ended. Something each child meets
Is this fate: playtime's over. I recall
A gladness when this time would roll around,
For school was something I always did well,
Though fellow students always did confound
Me and my efforts. Often it was hell.
Each kid feels singled out as somehow wrong,
Not knowing all feel wrong and most just watch
The crowd for cues, and follow the most strong,
Just waiting for that mistimed step or botch
Of ritual to signal who is ripe
To fall. And yes, I was the falling type.
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