road trips are for views
closer than from miles up
glistening in sun
three-storied row homes,
a riverfront fountain park,
DC’s a winner
our cycle closes
with a capital bike ride
and a pointed view
with paths everywhere
this city has won my heart
even in the heat
where honor presides
through a symmetrical stroll
of fallen soldiers
DC mixes all:
museums, monuments, paths
marking past; future.
we find ourselves here
remembering our lost dreams
in these reflections
a cultural mix
in language, architecture
(our country’s center)
library of all
holds too many gems to count
a sight for sore eyes
best of both worlds:
fusbol, patatas bravas
right here in DC
best of all worlds:
my family together, here,
discovering this.
in the man’s big house
they built him a three-room suite;
his children lived here:
remnants of slave life:
hard-hitting and far-reaching
(Black Lives Matter. Now?)
they dug up red clay
to lay every brick … by brick,
by breaking their backs
his famous status:
founder of freedom, writer
(declared our country)
brick by brick by brick
he laid his lies and kept his slaves
and wrote our future
and we swallow it
and throw coins at his gravestone
and try to forgive
they all shared this view–
from the big house; the slave house;
the land formed by God
and so we move on,
brick by brick by road by road
to see its beauty
Pappy and grandkids
as we begin the last leg
of this journey: life
his hometown forest
waits for us with him in it:
the perfect campsite
finally the bikes
double trouble, burning sun
made for a slow ride
but cousin time rocks
framed by wispy sand dune sky
and genuine grins
crawfish, anyone?
one last island shell cracking
to salt our way home
and we saw gators!
controlled, farmed, easy to feed
better there than here
stairs can be scary
but with this amazing view
they are worth the climb
everyone wins today
with sleeping in and reading books
and me fitting in a bike ride
on the way to the movies
(coastal views, zero elevation,
heat seeping through my new
jersey in a rushed attempt to
meet the time schedule)
and yet it hovers.
my vacation.
my vacation with friendly family,
getting-along-quite-well girls,
ocean views and coral reefs
and the best lake swimming there is
and …
no happy hour.
pedaling across those bridges,
sweating steps in Savannah,
making it through another day,
a blessed, lucky day on this earth…
and no drink to top it off,
to melt the anxiety that comes
with upcoming controversial family,
the stress that will be DC in July,
seeing my father-in-law slowly lose his mind;
no drink to bring brighter to life
the constancy of waves,
to further open my mouth for all
the thoughts i’m dying to share,
(to pour onto the page);
no drink to further relax my toes
into this cushion of sand,
my sore muscles into the clutch of alcohol,
my mind from the weight of the world.
and i say it again and again:
There’s always a reason…
and even on the perfect day,
the life’s a beach dream vacation day,
it. is. still. hard.
it is why i pedal.
why i write.
why i drive 6000 miles.
why i watch waves.
because the need to escape is real.
in all of us, no matter how picture-perfect our lives appear,
it is as real as this view, this beach, these toes.
but i made it.
i made it through another day.
and this poem is my happy hour.
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