When we were gypsies
our caravan
(laden with camping gear
and colouring books)
careened down highways,
dirt roads, music announcing
our presence to quiet trees,
the occasional deer.
Unorthodox in our lack
of instruments we sang instead
to the recordings of others,
compact and portable.
States, provinces were reduced
to blurred images of pine, shield,
industrial wasteland as seen from
the backseat window, driver’s side.
We were a tempestuous lot.
Abruptly pulling over at the sides of
major highways, children kicked out
with directions—turn left when you
get to Montreal.
Shoes catapulted over the
upholstered bench seat of dove grey,
aimed at the driver.
The car swerving,
swerving.
We were always on the go, never
on the run. New Orleans or bust
in one fragile shell of steel
or another.
(We only ever made it to Cleveland.)
The illustrious caravan
always on the verge of disaster—
too little gas or too many
kilometres.
But it was safety for us.
At night, the quiet hum of
dilapidated mechanisms
a lullaby, accented by the
slow breathing of sleep
that inevitably infected
half of us. Four conscious
beings reduced to two.
The highways continued.