The adults hurry to their cars as the bell rings,
the crossing guard sips his water, takes off his vest:
today the children will read of warriors and kings

while the adults put on airs, do grown-up things
like go to war, go to work, draw the curtains—then rest,
only to hurry to their cars as the bell rings

tomorrow, and the day after, until each day clings
to the one before, like a child to her mother’s breast.
Today the children will read of warriors and kings,

get too much sand in their shoes, play on swings:
time treads lightly; the adults are hard-pressed
to explain this hurry to their cars as the bell rings.

The crossing guard asks, what if the adults had wings?
What if the children? And at whose behest
do they hurry to their cars as the bell rings?

Soon the children will have children, and nightly sing
them lullabies. My son, you are life’s distinguished guest:
you may choose to hurry to your car as the bell rings,
or heed it—and stop to read of warriors and kings.