We passed them on southbound I-95,
not far from Jupiter: a caravan
of weather-worn RVs, the kind you drive
from park to park towards your winter tan.
Wisconsin license plates meant they had driven
for days—back-straining, patience-taxing days.
The hard work of vacationing had given
the drivers’ eyes a highway-haunted glaze
and must have left their necks in knots. What’s worse,
here in the “Sunshine State” it had been raining,
and we could almost hear the drivers curse;
the engines, too, were probably complaining.
We waved at them, but none waved back; each one
stared straight ahead, in search of mythic sun.
About the author
Jean L. Kreiling prefers traveling by foot, and has been fortunate to stroll along London streets, Italian cliffsides, and countless American beaches. Her poems… Read the full bio
Issue 12 · June 2011
Table of contents
More from The Journal
I have fallen in love with winter, /
with the day that ends at 3:45 in the afternoon. //
with the man striding along the path grasping /
a pink plastic bag that glows incandescent /
although it only contains dish soap /
and the cat food he carries home after work …
...you wonder again about the soul, /
Where it hides, where it ventures. /
There's always one you have to bring to oblivion...
I wanted to be gray-faced /
and hated by the Yankees /
in the suburbs past Carleton.
Once he’d made the long, impetuous trip, /
once we were there, evening air billowing my skirt /
over the Pacific, surf sweeping like brushes over drums, /
I knew we’d marry.
By Kris Spencer
I lived by a river with tides unresolved /
Under the house a sewer under a wooden board it ran /
Sometimes a tapping sometimes a hum in the night like a motor
By Christopher Chambers
and I dream of a young woman from Prague /
standing beside a red motorcycle as if so much /
depended upon it...
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose