School Bus

Annie Nields '17
You call from the parkway to tell me
you are surprised by the late winter snow,
surprised by those beautiful fat flakes driving
down the windshield, by that sweet joy
of just so much more than you had ever
hoped for, filling in the median, the banked sides
where the lofty white pines and steady maples
arrow the way down the familiar road
you travel each day to school, and now you
say under the wild and beautiful snow,  ice
has taken the road and your bus is stuck
as if unable to recall its destination or desire.
A funerary line of cars snakes up the road,
red taillights flash and glow and you have called
to tell me you are sorry but you will be
really late to school and though you know
Bob, the driver, is careful, you can see
cars wedged on the side of the road and some
drivers are standing in the cold wind blowing,
and some are inside leaned into their phones,
calling as you have done in this one moment amid
the wrecks of weather, when, schooled in the measuring
of fear, we must go on, but cannot, our phones cupped
in our hands, our voices calling and calling and calling.

-2017 Chapbook
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Collette Mourier 

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