here comes the bus

the mornings stood still with dew  

our laughter rising before the sun  

we crowded the cracked sidewalk edges  

waiting for the rumble to appear  

here comes the b-u-s we sang  

our voices spilling into the street  

and the melody became our anthem  

a hymn of backpacks and sharpened pencils  

Saint Louis King of France awaited us  

Sister Paula Marie in flowing habit  

ushering us into hushed wooden desks  

where allegiance followed seated prayers  

we were too young to know ceremony  

but the rhythm of routine held us  

and between silent words in clasped hands  

we learned how to belong to a time