Frank Modica
the husband slumps against
the front passenger door
listens to the hum of tires
on long stretches of interstate
children doze in the back seats
buckled in for the ride
the wife drives their minivan
in the thickening silence–
he turns on the radio
muffled gospel music
fades in and out of Bose speakers
they are old wineskins
with new wine bubbling
against weakened seams
she pulls into a rest stop
to switch drivers
while he stares through
the passenger window
on the side of the road
crows pick at a small, dead carcass
a ruined raccoon or possum
impossible to tell