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My Favorite Part of the Day
The much anticipated sound of screaming kids
greet me as I bypass the sharp tang of exhaust fumes
and clamber up the paint-speckled stairs onto the bus.
As I push my way through the congregation
of screechy middle-school drama-queens,
I strain to overhear the scintillating
conversation about pink-glitter nail-polish,
and the totally cute new kid from social studies.
Aromatic fragrances of day-old barbecue chips
and moldy sandwiches slowly drift my way,
enveloping my nose with its subtle tang.
The synthetic plastic seats are heaven
and, with a welcome sense of relief,
I settle into it's cracked exterior;
a much needed respite for my tortured soul.
With a wonderful groan, the bus creeps its way
across the gravel-strewn street and onto the highway.
The hiss and squeak of air-brakes, accompanied
by the excited squeals of pre-teens facing another
near death experience, is music to my ears.
With a regretful sigh, I turn my pensive face
towards the cool glass pane.
Only twenty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds to go.