My mother tells me to wear a hat

but she’s distracted. It’s the kind of advice

she feels required to offer. My brother

is already gone, or maybe he’s still here

but asleep in the basement. Neither

my mother nor I check. She offers

a ride to the bus stop but I say no.

She doesn’t know I take public,

and she wouldn’t understand

the way the school bus

feels like walking into the steel jaws

of an animal trap, the kind that snaps

the ankle, cuts through

to the bone. She doesn’t understand

that I need an option of escape,

that a school bus driver

doesn’t have to listen,

that there is no string to pull

when the air begins to thicken

in your lungs. I know what she would say:

Isn’t that the point?

To get students to school

without letting them get off?

And I would say

Exactly