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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1506047-68-Minutes
Rated: E · Poetry · Cultural · #1506047
Not all abuse is at the hands of adults...
68 Minutes

The low hum of the engine,
the rocking of the bus,
another day for school,
another day of broken trust.

As we approach his stop,
I cringe and pull inside.
but no matter how I try
I know I cannot hide.

He’s just another boy
tall and gangly,
that’s been labeled “special”
'tho he just seems slow to me.

It’s a daily ritual
when we’re at his stop.
He slowly walks back toward me
and I find that my eyes drop.

The driver turns a blind eye
amidst the jostle and the jeers.
Am I the only one to see
his eyes fill up with tears?

I’ve tried to tell my parents
and officials at the school
but they don’t ever listen
they think that I’m a fool.

"Kids will always be kids",
at least that’s what they say.
But I don’t want to be a kid
if this is the price I have to pay.

I silently stand by and watch -
I learn a lesson straight from hell.
I wonder at the cruelty and
why a part of me dies as well.

And so for 68 minutes
as I ride the bus each day
I withdraw, protect myself,
and silently I pray.

“God, help me find the strength
to do what I know is right.
Let me practice what I’ve been taught
to stand for the weak and fight.”

But instead, I slide on the seat
and don’t offer him a place.
He continues to the back
where no one shares his space.

I know that his small bruises
will all heal with time
but the wounds that I have witnessed
will last OUR whole lifetime.

Not all abuse is obvious and not all is committed by adults.  Sometimes the worst abuse comes in the form of silence from ourselves and from those around us.  “We have met the enemy and he is us”  Pogo

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