On the bus, on the plane,
a child kicks the seat,
Loudly sings a half-song
on repeat.
Watch the adults wince,
the parents hiss under their breath,
their patience thinned to wire.
They stare harder at their safety cards,
at crossword clues,
at the blue glow of movies
they won’t remember.
This is the invitation-
Not the kind printed on cardstock,
but the kind that comes with grape jelly fingerprints,
with questions about the clouds,
with shoelaces that won’t stay tied.
Tell me more about that dragon.
That’s not a shadow, it’s a mountain.
What would you name the ocean
if “ocean” was taken?
When they cry,
que the jokes,
make a peanut packet talk-
and the aisle is lighter for it.
How could this not be better
than folding yourself into a seat,
guarding your stiff silence?
Soon they’re gone,
dragging backpacks like spare limbs,
wet-cheeked or grinning.
I sit in the quiet,
watching the passengers
already back to their closed faces.
The question stays:
how could that human response
not be better
when the world hands us
small, loud,
unrepeatable gifts-
and we hand them back unopened?
