I forgot such a functional family existed:

Immature kids and parents alike. The gangly

daughter gripes at her little brother as we

pass many signs, across a dry freeway-

caking piles of dirt crumble to dust as

the wheels turn over the covered

pavement and I point out an Arizona

license plate four cars up, stealing the

lead with 400 points and I surrender my

battle against the sun on my knees as the

daughter gives up on her pointless fit and

rests her head on her shoulder while she

reaches for the bag of chips in the back

seat and lips form the word “noun” as

the older sister writes something out

of our view so as not to spoil the story.

The young boy has fallen asleep in the

back of their trash-filled station wagon

with his face covered in crumbs and

the hint of a smile as a cracked window

up front whistles, bidding speedy winds

fly in to make a stressed mother’s ponytail

even less structured with her dark hairs

whipping around unmasking streaks of gray,

once veiled and an aroma of green

apples greets us as the sun through the

window, not tinted, borrows a square of

pink on a fair-skinned leg, which could

only belong to me and even the food wrappers

and empty Capri-Sun bags seem to bask in

the warmth and the car purrs steadily

with the sleeping child’s breath.

(org. 7/29/05 rev. 10/9/08)