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
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
By Rimas Uzgiris
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen from the wires.
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
By Pui Ying Wong
Here’s the river I stepped in more than twice.// I can’t see them but I know the boats/
are going by in the sturdy fog...
By R L Swihart
And now you explore the hidden pockets and come up/
with a City Guide (in English) you picked up in Amsterdam./
Why did I keep that? Where were we going? But she’s/
not there to answer
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose