After-School Hunch

That kid, small,

scrawny shoulders,

the pack a dark hump

almost to the knees.

Nylon straps cut deep

into the thin fabric

of a faded t-shirt,

a red line left

on the skin.

They don't even know

what they carry yet.

Just the books, the lunch

they didn't eat,

a rock from the playground,

a crumpled paper.

Just the physical pull,

a steady downward drag.

No thought of the years

when the weight

becomes invisible.