The Lesson of Ross
My stomach recoils as we
lumber up, sending
raison bran and apple juice
up my throat for an encore.
As the brakes whine, so
does my memory, tossing
advice from the base of
experience to flee, to
fake illness or just climb
to the top of the bus and
swan dive into a ravine,
breaking more bones than
Evel Knievel after he
jumped the fountain at
Caesar’s Palace while
wearing patriotic colors.
I get slugged in the
shoulder, sending the
book in my hand
soaring five seats ahead.
With a sigh, I reach
to understand why
so much glory gets
offered to bullies.
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