On Vacation

Your five days of driving
on your trek to the southland
wilts the flower of togetherness.
But now that you are there
I can imagine you wrapped
in suntan oil lolling on the beach.
If you raise your head you can see
the Cadillacs and Lincolns pass
in their search for fun. What fun
to peer at a menu with the same
steaks and chops you left at home
with enough fish to prove you are
near the ocean. After a nap you rise
to meet the folk next door, smile sweetly,
‘‘How do you do, your first time here?’’
Nah, they’ve been coming for years
as bored as dead fish eyes with
the conversation of a couple of ducks
quacking about the wonderful palms,
the moonlit nights, ‘‘Only, you know
we go to bed early.’’ The sandy beaches,
days spent picking up shells, ‘‘You should
see our shell collection.’’ And some morning
after coffee a faraway look in your eyes,
you’ll say, ‘‘Let’s go home,’’ or if you
don’t say it, you will think it
while you watch the Cadillacs
and Lincolns creep through traffic
toward Disneyland.