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Alone in the back seat,
parents up front,
grandparents or friends
ahead,
in a house that creaks
and smells like ancient comic books
and warm maple syrup.Summer.
Like driving up to Maine,
and back,
on the coastal route,
in and out, out and in,
town after town,
rock after rock,
breaker after breaker,
white paint, white paint, white paint,
fog here and there.
T-shirt, sweater, fleece;
T-shirt.
The sticky leather seat,
mom’s god-awful music.
Are we there yet? No!
Regular choir up there.
Sun melting the dash.Plates sighted,
even Wyoming.
Capitals all named,
Even Frankfurt.
Really gotta go now!
Stop for lunch:
Pairs of old people
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Eating:
Fish, fish, more fish.
Lobster, crab, squid.
Awful.
Orangey hot dog, please.Back on the road.
How much longer?
Soon! Says front seat.
Soon is a very long time,
Nearly as long as
Almost there.More coast between
towns now.
Remembering this one.
Packed parking lot near boats.
Quick, find a space: unpack the stuff,
Run for tickets, down the steep dock,
board the mail-boat.
Past boats in the harbor,
into light fog.Clang of lines approaching island,
Before we see it.
Climb the dock, walk up the sandy path,
pulling the carts;
fishy smell, welcoming gulls.“Are we there now?”
“Yes!”“When are we going home?”
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