They slip on to the bus, hair piled up high.
New styles each month, it seems to me. I look,
Not wanting to be seen, casting my eye
Above the unread pages of a book.
They are fifteen or so. When I was thus,
I huddled in school coats, my satchel hung
Lop-sided on my shoulder. Without fuss
These enter adolescence; being young
Seems good to them, a state we cannot reach,
No talk of “awkward ages” now. I see
How childish gazes staring out of each
Unfinished face prove me incredibly
Old-fashioned. Yet at least I have the chance
To size up several stages—young, yet old,
Doing the twist, mocking an “old-time” dance:
So many ways to be unsure or bold.
