Yellow Line - A Memorial Poem by Diane Lee Moomey

Across the yellow line, the childish run—
nothing to be done. The yellow bus:
the scent of school that lingers even here
so many miles from gaily-painted walls
where crayon-lettered posters show the lives

of monarch butterflies. Cars and trucks,
the black and yellow bus. The country road—
houses, barns and chores await, perhaps
a batch of eggs about to hatch—a sight
worth running for. Beside the dotted line

a pickup truck; a gray sedan behind,
blind, catches her in flight and nothing's
to be done. She's lying on her back,
her shoulders small and soft.The gravel's hard
beneath my feet—I watch, and someone strokes

her fingers, curled if in sleep. We wait,
the witnesses: for twirling lights, the opening
of double doors, for questioning.
We witnesses, beside the yellow bus
so many miles away from colored walls,

crepe paper flowers.