Ten-thirty AM in the campground,
Mourning Doves coo their sad sound,
People air their damp sleeping bags
Children swarm on electric scooters.
(In my day, it was roller skates)
Then, the diesels rumble to life.
Wives with cell phones direct the backouts,
Don’t run over the scooters!
Speed limit: five miles per hour,
(When are we going to go metric?)
Yet the earth trembles
As they pass by, single file.
Above, old white men look down
From their Plexiglas canopies,
The last one towing a smart car.
(To save gas, I presume)
The rumble moves down the county road,
The electric scooters swarm again,
And the Mourning Doves resume their laments