I pass them every morning now
as they wait for the belching yellow bus,
standing sheep-like in sociable little groups.
Others wait off to the side,
weighed down by heavy books
or ill-fitting years, the “strange ones,”
and I find myself hoping they haven’t
quietly discovered the secret
we grownups desperately try to keep—
that we are thrown into this world
by some comical god
or chancy Randomness;
that we are all just trying to make
our dizzy way through life
knowing nothing much will come of it.