It was after school
and I was one of the only ones
on the bus
not plugged in
no white wires trailing out
of my ears
like limp antenna.
The bus was quiet
while a hundred different songs
blazed invisible to me
like a boiling storm
inside blank gazes
revealing
nothing.
I don’t bemoan it;
complaining about kids
these days
is like roaring up at the sky
in winter
petitioning it not
to snow.
Still, I wish
I had been brave enough
to pierce that silence
with a steady
joyful
whistle.
As old as lips
the whistle is dying
and who will remember
to eulogize her
when the last
honey-dipped melody
hangs in the air
and there are no more options
for a person on his own
to radiate joy in public
and not be presumed
insane.