It’s almost time to go. The body snaps back like the rubber on a slingshot, hangs there limp for what’s next. The clock has a tick too. The cat understands no schedule. The rain has been going all night, it made its own blanket. From the kitchen on the radio the voice of Bob Dylan, the bus threads the cul-de-sacs coming closer, it’s slowing to a stop, it’s waiting for the driver’s signal, come.

Categories: musings, parenting, poetry, writing

Tags: Bob Dylan, parenting, poetry, prose, routine, school buses, William Pearse writer