Then,
midway through the song
the music wanders off
in a dozen different directions,
spiling out like shirttails,
like kids when the last bell rings
in June and someone brushes
bangs from dark brown eyes,
glances furtively and zig-zags
down the hall as boys
bounce off the walls, one later
gazing out the window
of the bus, listening
to the score of his soul
composing itself, before he tears
into a bag of Cheese Curls
and licks his finger clean
of the orange sort of moondust
as the bus wheels and his heart wheels
slowly turn, and without
knowing it he hums
a melody unencumbered
by anything like bars.