occasionally, driving schoolbuses
They wear green baseball caps the right way
so that their faces are shaded
when they drive.
They curve one dollar bills
so that the green bits of money stay flat in their shirt pockets.
They chew gum and spit it out in trash cans.
They think of adjectives for 'great' as the school
looms into view like a great brick dog, waiting for
flashing lights of yellow bones.
They soak in all the conversation and when
winter salts the earth with snow before it takes a bite
they spit the words back out.
They are unspeakably tired
and they have leaden eyes and square glasses with round corners.
Sometimes they are very quiet.
Other times they are silent.
They have cardboard boxes as hands
to carry paperwork on CB radios
and their windshield wipers always dance when it rains.
They yell at us when we touch red or black.
They are immortal and they never leave and
once in a while one of them will have
magnets stuck to the overhanging metal bars.
They hand us back our belongings when,
smiling, we forget to stop magic eight balls
and instead shoot bullets that say
"yes" or maybe "no", "next time", "maybe", "confusion"
Somewhere along the lines they become old.