Today, I’m a Senior.
My sister, April, a Freshman.
Dad pecks our cheeks,
Mom, still sleeping.
He claims she said
have a nice day.
Outside,
April hands Sam
the homeless man
a Pop-Tart tucked in a paper towel.
Dad would be proud.
Past Cafe 82, Celestial Treasures, Harry’s Shoes.
Past a yellowing leaf twirling with a Burger King wrapper,
floating, then falling together, on the cracked curb.
Time flies—
once we were little girls dancing to the Go-Go’s,
mirrored walls showing us ourselves,
matching long blond ponytails,
April arms out, voice open, singing loud.
Me, taking the slow part, spinning in circles.
Now, eyes locked, under the glass bus stop,
a sign reads:
In December, not just tokens only, MetroCards too.
Write it down in my planner; make sure April sees.
Our backpacks heavy with possibility,
a million taxis storm by,
blowing our hair up in this September breeze,
the bus yawns, opens its doors to us,
like it has just woken up.