The wheels on my bus
go 'round and 'round,
eternally and
        invariably
ending up here
but my apple is bruised,
scored by the countless times
        I have dropped it.
    Peechee folders and binder paper
turn to dust in my hands
and my history ends
        long before I've begun.
    I am a soaked and sodden sponge
but I have spilled my milk
        and I must be cleaned up.
    The wheels on my bus
have gone flat from overuse
on an unforgiving terrain,
which would be cruel enough
        but I have lost my drive as well.
    The wheels on my bus
keep taking me to the place
where I started,
        and it seems it never ends.
    I want to drive this bus
so that I can decide where
        I am going,
who will board,
what we will sing,
where we will find ourselves,
when to turn in a new direction,
why we have made this journey
and how to know it’s time to stop.
    I want to be the driver,
but I am the infinite rider,
holding my books as though
their pages were made of glass
and their lessons might shatter,
leaving my mind with cuts and scrapes,
knowing that the nurse
is not in today.
    The wheels on my bus turn
as I sit there sleeping,
dreaming of a destination
that is only a rumor from
the dark-haired girl who always lies,
and the wheels on my bus go
        'round and 'round,
         'round and 'round,
          'round and 'round.