We're riding in a rented blue Oldsmobile,

squished together

like raisins in a tiny box.

My back is burnt

and my face cooled

by an air conditioner

and a cracked window.



I'm feeling the rocky bumps under me

and the windy road,

forever long, and

hoping we didn't hit any animals.

My eyes peer out the window

at the passing beige mountains

and red roofed homes.

The smell of Grandma's

designer imposter perfume

irritates my nose.

"I'm in a gas chamber," I say.

The sound of mom's raspy voice answers:

"how much longer?"



Finally our destination:

A tiny western village,

a souvenir capital

where dressed-up cowboys

sell us tacky trinkets

and grade f hot dogs.



Grandma sits down and chugs a beer

and I buy sunglasses to soothe my eyes.

Mom is lost

and Dad is flirting with a cowgirl;

My sister left home

before the vacation.



"Time to go,"

shouts my dad,

and we pile back in the car,

more squished from our junk,

and more uncomfortable than ever.



A drive home sounds relaxing,

I think.

Till I fall asleep

and Grandpa sits on and breaks

my glasses.

The sun sets

and coyotes

send out their call;

I lock my door.



My head is propped on the window

and the vibration wakes me;

Grandma's elbow is in my face.

I can't wait until we get back to the hotel.



And finally we do.

But it's not over,

because dad left his wallet at a souvenir stand,

so back we go -

another journey past the sun.