Renewal
In the parking lot across the street,
they're washing the orange-yellow
school buses. I count five of them
with buckets and rags, buffing out
the bugs, scrubbing up the wheels.
Someone with a spray bottle walks
the aisles inside, bringing the green
vinyl back to a shine. Even the black
rubber matting will be freed of its
sticky glaze, and the crumbs and bits
of paper will be vacuumed away, so
that a month from now our children
will start the first day of school in
what feels like a new bus, free from
all that happened before. Unspoiled.
For at least one day, there are no
broken crayons, no frayed edges on
the folders, no rips or stains, nothing
lost, no half-empty bottles of glue.
Every notebook is clean and nothing
has been written down. Anything is
possible. Everything can go our way.
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