A humid morning’s light filters through the mud caked window
Of an ancient burgundy station wagon, casting a sepia tone
Onto cracking leather. The taupe seats are traced with corrugations,
Furrows imprinted by the fidgeting of four small anxious children. The
Bench takes on the characteristics of an exsanguinated brain, whose
Decay is quickened by the picking of four sets of hands, and stained by
The spillage from four small mouths. Couched in the safety of the way-back,
Salvos of crayons sail through the slits of the head rest. Declarations
Of war are met with contestation from the front, the mediator of the
Back seat diplomacy. Wails of ennui, thoughtless teasing and sleeping and
Sounds of windows squeaking up and down harmonize with the roadside din.
Every license plate, espied between long blinks of half sleep, gives rise to
Narratives. Tangents about the lives of that blue sedan driver, the lemon
Faced old lady driving white knuckled, or the mustachioed vagabond who
Pilots the large truck, who chugs his horn at a window straining under the
Weight of pawing hands and eager faces. “The convertible from Florida deals
Heroine!”, chirps the back seat. “No it certainly does not!” corrects the driver.
An exasperated push of the electric cigarette lighter prompts a chorus of
“Warp Speed!” The humming and buzzing, and eventual inter-galactic
Warfare is met with incremental raisings of the radio. One tired adult steeps
Herself in the monotone of talk radio punctuated by the nuanced
Arguments of, “This is boring!” Radio comes off, the windows come down, and a
Glorious vacuum, a childless ‘whoosh’ fills the cabin for at least seven minutes.
