I'm too young to be nostalgic
for school buses,
drip drip drench right turns
when sitting in the one seat left
because I'm quiet
in the mornings.

Every flavor gum popping
against the din of musical overflow,
frayed headphones spilling,
killing individuality
with the mix/mesh/meld
of almost audible;
singular sensation
but not static.

Winter chill distilled,
burning floorboards
and ripped plastic,
foam filling up the gaps
while it's dark inside,
can't see so I'll just sleep,
bump my head in lethargy
until brakes hiss;
depressurize.

Dismount,
don't slip,
even though the stairs are always
wet, somehow;
worn out treads laugh
at adolescent awkwardness.

Six hours slide
until it's time to reconvene
this peer-led jury,
everything is evidence,
but I can deal;
too much time inside my own mind
isn't good for anyone,
though I'd rather go insane
than be judgmental.

Rivulets descend
in downhill skids,
never want to know
what happens in the back row—
can't read books with sex scenes,
either,
without being interrupted.

But I'm too young to be nostalgic
for school buses.