With driving strides, Sam nears a yellow bus.
He slows then stops. It is full. Windows fogged.
Heads droop, cheeks squash, palms smear against the glass.
Stretchers stacked on two-by-four frames, collapsed
When the bumper struck the guard-rail, low-speed.
Scarcely a dent. The driver slumped, face-down
On the wheel, hands in his lap. Nothing moves.
Arms and legs poke like twigs from a woodpile.
Sam breathes from his mouth, ashen, unable
To look away, stumbling on noodled legs.