Just a Sandwich

Every weekday, I drive a bus

through tattered streets

to a tired school

that opens its doors at 3:05 with a sigh.

By ones and twos, the after-school program kids

find me.

Some explode into the bus

like shaken soda,

some swagger

like returning conquistadors,

some skulk

within spectral hoodies.

M. is one of the angry ones.

Outside, all bristles and armor --

the raw soul inside held together

with band-aids and sinewy yearning.

M. is a volcano, so we've learned

to watch for smoke and clear the exits.

Spewing curses as he slams aboard,

shoving a skulker out of his favorite seat ...

Today is high alert.

I make calming noises

as I start the engine.

Then there's a knock on the bus door

and I groan.

It's T.

Another angry one

with boiling innards, erupting

on his pimply, pudgy, pouty face.

T. and M. are fire and fire,

fist and fist.

From the doorway, T. looks around,

sees the only empty seat

is beside

the scowling, steaming M. mountain.

Emotions cascade over T.'s face:

Offense? Defense? Flee? Fight?

Everyone is watching

as T. bends over his backpack

and pulls out a paper bag.

The bag crinkles

and T. reaches out to M.

with a squashed sandwich in his hand.

"You want it?"

We all hold our breath.

M. takes the sandwich and stuffs it in his mouth.

T. smiles and sits

and M. laughs

through a mouthful of peanut butter

and the bus rolls along.

As I drive, I marvel in the moment.

It is like finding

a gold nugget in a coal bin

a waterfall in the desert

a flower on the moon

a sandwich in a volcano.

I will feast on this

for a long, long time.