March 21, 2005

• My children know interstate rest stops.
  The new one half way from Amarillo to
  the Oklahoma state line has the nicest playground
  we've seen since Cairo, Illinois.

  
  

  I make that sound, the one the cave
  mom made when her youngest confessed
  he didn't "go" before they left the cavern.
  We like to check the map, and giggle
  about how they knew that "we'd be here"
  and just when to put the red push pin in place.
  I walk and stretch, they tumble like puppies.
  Then we are back in the car so fast
  my dad would be proud of our rest stop skill.
  
  We drive past the place in New Mexico where the
  wind blows hard enough to steal the top slice
  of bread from our sandwich.  It's not the hot
  dry breeze we avoid, it's the "no facilities" sign.
  
  From Florida to Minnesota, Virgina to Colorado
  we go, and go again, because we haven't seen them All.

  
  

   

  
  

  "Mom, stop writing poems!  When the wheels hit the bumps
  at the side of the road, my cd player skips."

  • 4:30 pm
  • 8 Comments