Losing it

On hour eleven
Of a Family Car Trip TM
On a sweltering day
That the weather forecaster 
described as “soupy”

We are losing it
Melting 
into the ether

Melding 
with the automotive leather

Brain cells clumping 
in molten heaps

Dripping 
out of our ears

The child is spontaneously laughing
The partner is quietly grimacing
My head is a duel 
of tension headaches 
and pop music super saturation

He pipes in the World Cup
So unseen crowds 
cheer and jeer in stereo 
And somehow 
no matter how far we drive,
it seems like 
the miles to go are unchanged

And now we find pace 
As we coast 
through Mystic Seaport
And the sun is at our back
And the traffic is at bay
And while the cabin 
likely still carries air 
from stifling Maryland
lurking in zipped luggage
or closed cooler bags,
we are shifting 
into New England
Leaving the algae 
and the falling stages 
and the tens of people
thronging on the Mall
and the mid-Atlantic 
Heat Dome behind us.

Onward
Into the liminal space 
between dusk and twilight
When the sky is bright 
but the road is dull 
And the cars smooth 
in their arcs across dashed lines, 
no longer filled 
with vexation and verve, 
swerving and cutting off 
and honking left at the state line

Some families prefer air travel 
A quick Uber to DCA 
and a direct flight 
into an international 
Eastern seaboard hub.

But we are a people of things
Many, many things.
Of foods
Of electronics
Of not yet baked goods
Of art projects
And stacks of books
And full sized hair products
And multiple paddle brushes.
And sleep-away camp gear.

And so once again 
we find ourselves
In the PJ
— The private jalopy — 
the living room on wheels
with full-sized pillows
and a fleet of projectile hazards:
forty ounce steel water vessels 
in the trendiest hues, 
lavender Polaroid cameras, 
three backpacks filled to the brim 
with heavy bulky items.

Basic Economy could never.

And while we lack flight attendants
we also lack hot food service
and onboard lavs
and a double on the rocks, 
make it fast

But what we do have
is body odors mingling
and increasingly loopy passengers
and off key singing
and clashing tastes in playlists
and occasional sleepers
(not yet the driver)
and a packet of double flavor Skittles 
for the cheap cheap price 
of eight dollars ninety 
and which I can hear but not see
as they plunk plunk plunk 
out of the poly bag 
into the depths of the car crevices
likely never to be found again

And the sound of sugar beads
which will surely melt into the frame 
and seams and weave of car
are like the few remaining 
marbles rattling in my dehydrated skull

But the memories, we have made
no one can take away
the sounds
the smells
the groans 
the giggles
the sights of endless bumpers, 
which would prompt my dad to say:
“If you’re not the alpha dog? 
Then the view is all the same.”

The feel of grit under feet
and lukewarm Orange Crush 
seeping out of an errant rolling can. 
No one can take these 
core moments of madness from us
(nor, would they even want to?)