And then, as I was walking the dirt road,
it hit me like a school bus: people
might not like me. I felt the rush of air before
the bumper connected with my butt, and knew
in that moment I could choose to be flattened or
choose to somehow crawl into that bus
and ride along with the jeers and snarls and sneers.
Okay, I said, as I clawed my way around the yellow fender
to the open door, a stowaway on my fear.
I climbed the green stairs and felt their stares:
icy, cruel, fierce. Others indifferent, bored.
I stared back, prepared to feel small.
Hello, I said, waiting for shame. But
that’s not what I felt at all. Instead,
some seed of awareness that I was not splattered
by fear but alive, and now moving in one direction
with this busload of what frightened me so,
And I was not flattened nor crushed nor bruised.
I took my seat. Felt their eyes on my back.
And the bus kept driving along. When it stopped,
I stepped off, surprisingly whole.
Leave a Reply