Who is driving at 2:34 in the morning?
One suspects participants
in some unsavory activities.
As for myself
“unsavory” suits the circumstance:
An inconsolable three-year-old
non-stop screaming while tent camping
moved me to drive home at this unholy hour.
Not wanting to permanently wake my temporary neighbors
by tipping the first domino of the toddler alarm,
I whisked the screamer
through the downpour
barefoot on gravel
into the arms of the carseat,
a device of previously insuperable soporific powers.
Alas, the straps and pads
and even the lulling rockabye of country road driving in the rain
all failed,
so I am left behind the wheel
wondering between screams
if my fellow travelers are steady insomniacs
(or one-night-standers like me)
or if they are demoniacs
(like my son).
Who is being possessed at this hour
to eschew beds for belts,
feather pillows for foam headrests?
Those bewitched by
Wanderlust?
White Castle cravings?
A sleep-hating child?
Whoever we are,
maybe not today,
and maybe not tomorrow
but at some point
yesterday
we were the ones
driving our parents
at 2:34 in the morning
crying:
I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes.
But for now,
this rain’s gonna wash a way
for us to snuggle a few hours
in my bed
before he wakes up and asks,
“Where’s tent?”
with an incredulous look on his face.
I can’t believe it.
