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# Unpack
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/unpack/
- Published: 2026-08-16T15:58:08.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:05:56.000Z
- Description: “Unpack,” a braggadocious, smug-glorious observation of post-roadtrip unpacking alacrity, written Sunday, August 16, 2026 poem 228 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Let's Unpack This," by Diana Ludwick © 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Generational, Humor, Insufferable, Of Place, Petty, Poems, Pun-y / Tongue-in-Cheek, travel, Unserious, August, Braggadocious, Fall is Coming, Family, Generation, Generations, High Summer, Maine, parenting, relationships, Roadtrip, Smug-Glorious, Summer, Summer's End, This is Funny, Without Hinges, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Our family has been captive in a car for twelve hours.  
Southbound from a summer's perfect week in Maine,  
we've each undergone several rounds of unspooling.  
  
Our speedometer registers our deceleration—   
our torsos bend and sway from the familiar turns home.  
  
This trip, we have no strollers or coolers, no booster seats, toys.  
We scale the driveway; I goad us to unpack in under ten minutes.  
They scoff at me, but I am serious.  
  
"Six Fifty Two, Forty seconds!" I cry. "Let's go!"  
  
He parks, engages the E-brake; I duck and roll to action.  
By the time he cuts the engine, the tailgate is yawning open.  
Hoist hefty duffels, two, three at a time, over my shoulder.   
  
I dump them in the mud room, then double back, and again.  
Pry open doors; evacuate the passenger rows   
of empty seltzer cans and dubious trash.   
Discard fruit peels and Starbucks detritus.  
  
I check my watch, take a proof shot:   
6:56:42 P.M. ET— the car is completely empty.  
The car is clean; the trip is over.   
A family record — I've achieved glory.  
"I WIN!" I screech.   
Loved ones roll eyes in tandem.  
  
A somber air lurks behind my victory;   
as my trunk shuts, so too does Summer wane.  
I empty groaning trash bags into the awaiting washing machine  
so that, unlike my compliant luggage,   
the swim club closure, and the pull of school and autumn   
— and its moldy leaves, sluggish mornings, too soon, too dark evenings —  
stay far from reach.