Primary Lessons

The bus is a box, the children
obedient as crayons.
Each morning one by one
they climb into rows, thoughts
scattered out windows,
leaning toward that time of day
when they can wander outside the lines,
mark up the evening air
with the whirl of bicycle tires,
arc of a swing.
The older ones think of sundown,
when long, waxy shadows
soften every sidewalk they can imagine.
The youngest want to step on a crack,
break your mama's back.