When light streaks the perforated dome above your head
And the cracked faux leather expanse of the seat to your right is painted in flecks of gold
When this rickety tin can bounces to a halt
In front of the place we’ve been calling hell as of late
I will shake your cratered Converse
And shoot whispers across the aisle to your ghostly pale orb
I will pull on the locks of night sky that frame your façade
And tell the stars to go on and get a head start
You’re being lazy today
Eventually I’ll shoot comets against your closed eyelids
Perhaps kiss the surface of your lunar visage in an effort to wake you from your comatose state
When that doesn’t work, the bus driver will come around back to our cozy pocket of the universe and boom, “Get a move on kid, my wife’s got roast cookin’”
He will sigh
The shadow of a meaty hand eclipses you
Children stare wide eyed from the ground
Grown ups declare the event once in a life time
And slowly you open your eyes
The biggest craters of all
And for a moment
A slight, slender, sliver of a waning second
You will think you are the moon
And under the emerging rays of the sun
There is a new urgency to get a move on; you need to make way for the golden light
I will then tell you we’re at school
And all the other kids are already bleary eyed in their desks
But you’ve already been swept up into the dustpan of the cosmos by some authoritative broom
You’ve already lost yourself
To an open galaxy bleeding the need to achieve something more worthwhile
Then biting your pencils
And waiting for your life to begin