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.