Jeannie Prinsen

Seasons in the Sun


Autumn road trip, New England woods
a crazy quilt spread before us. Heading home,
we stopped for fast food – seventies pop
on the sound system, the two of us cry-
laughing at the shallow lyrics, cheap
rhymes like air, there, everywhere,
Big Mac with a side of cheesy reverb.
We were immune to pathos, swiveling
on molded chairs, licking french-fry
and tear salt from our fingers, stolid locals
staring us into another gasping gale. Gone,
hard, out of time were words, not
destinations we thought we’d ever reach.
Telling a friend goodbye? Leave it to us
to find that funny.