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Richard Matta 

Our Airstream

We’re parked wings wide 

along the waterfront. The breeze

carries seagull squawks, scents 

of salt and grills. It’s inescapable—

the commotion 

in nearby spaces. The conundrum 

of dodging fellow Airstream riders. 

They drop in unexpectedly

loiter, laugh, hoot like seagulls,

show again

to scavenge samples and leftovers.


We lower our wings 

with the sun, settle down

watch the waves and whitewater, 

taste spindrift. A purr here, a grunt

there, even a cry or two. It’s our last

trip with the Airstream, dad says. 

Fuel prices, waiting lists 

for dwindling park places, competition 

for isolation.

The Airstreams 

like little silver capsules 

released from dark clouds. 

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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