Other kids whine about walking to school.
Not you.
You live for those two miles
from step to step
through fields waving with butter bright cosmos
fighting shyness
to greet you, horn in hand, as you march
to beats from faraway drums,
count each footfall to one hundred,
then start over.
Other kids ride bicycles to get to class fast.
Not you.
You stop for each driveway
from house to house
gather stones, tire dropped pebbles,
Mother Earth's leftovers
left for pockets in pants outgrown, tight
yet worn in places unexplored
by anyone but wet nosed dogs,
unfenced, curious.
Other kids ride busses from track side shacks.
Not you.
You walk a king's promenade
from street to street
sun dappled asphalt, your red carpet;
trees clapping leaves
herald your highness, assemble masses,
shadows play peasants under your feet,
beneath disdain, unworthy
dancing fools.
Other kids slink behind honeysuckle hedges, wait.
For you.
You look for bushes with legs
from yard to yard,
ask for a show of hands,
testament to ignorance;
the neighborhood's king
has a pocket full of rocks
and he's counting
to three.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones