"Are we there yet?" In unison, red corduroys,
pink bathing suits, invisible impatient noise:
sniffle, whine, shriek. Each call of their wild pitched so
poignantly to a parent's crystal patience. No:
ten more miles, six more lights, four more minutes. The joys

promised in picture perfect pamphlets are worn toys
flying over the front seat; this bold truth annoys
the driver. His blank-faced, back-of-head eyes know
this divided territory. "Are we there yet?"

is scrolled in finger breath for the toll collector, poised
to snatch hard earned sand through fingers. The backseat boys'
choir warming up, scales the walls of sound below
A flat. Precision packed contents of the trunk blow
around the quiet road. Next year, kidless; St Croix's
package deal is always a hope. "Are we there yet?"