Station Wagon Purgatory

A muscle knot bloomed in the meat of my calf

and suddenly it was nineteen-ninety-eight.

I could hear my father’s tired, gravelly laugh

and feel the heavy, humid pressure of the freight.

I saw a kid in the lane over, drawing a ghost

in the window fog with a small, greasy hand.

I remember when the gas station was a coastal post

in a vast, unmapped, and terrifying land.

The smell of old foam and a crayon in the latch,

a wax-melted smear of 'Cerulean Blue.'

We were just luggage that didn't quite match,

waiting for the destination to finally come through.