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)
