POEM: Bus Ride, Early September Morning

The young girl, who looks
no older than seven or eight,
her black hair draped
on her arms, leans out
of the bus window
as if she were sleeping.

Only her turquoise and black shirt,
ripped open, and the blood
streak down the side of the bus
tell you she is dead.

In Jerusalem, workers will come
later to remove the onions and grapes,
notebooks and pencils
that litter the street.

The journey began for some
the day before the start
of the new school year
with a trip to the market.

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POEM: Bus Ride, Early September Morning

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