Peloton-like, teenagers turn-take to lead the dash from school
Focused on the pavement ahead they jostle at a pace
They pinpoint a bus in the distance and the run quickens
Breathing heavily, hands on knees, a fit lad has won the race

Mountaineering to the top deck they have their preferred seats
Like fox cubs they wrestle and scramble to claim a key position
The social order on this top deck is clearly apparent
In the front seats are the older, cool lads, in a coalition

Chatter, laughter, name-calling; some broken voices dominate
An ear is flicked and someone wrongly gets the blame.
Thumbs a-blur, some are using their iPhones and Samsungs
Clearly not wanting to take part in this timeworn war game

Gradually, stop by stop, the bus disgorges it’s adolescent load
Nods to the remainers but no embarrassing waves
In pairs and solitary walkers they drift off home
One lad, still on the bus, is their leader, simply because he shaves