Port of Call

From the Lockport Caves
in western New York
through Cleveland and Lodi
on down to Pandora,
Grandma Jill’s Land Yacht sails
through deciduous glens.
Leafy vines swaddle
the driftwood flesh
of skeletal trees-
sentries amidst willows that weep,
and ancient alders.
A Dixie Chicks CD follows
80s soul, and DJ diva—Delilah
as we float on an ocean of sound
down US Interstate 71 South.

Dusk falls.
The Land Yacht sails smooth
onto Route 30 west,
The Lincoln Highway.
We turn down the AC,
and scan radio stations
searching for something
to sink into.
W-Y-N-T radio
out of Upper Sandusky, Ohio.
The WhY NoT oldies hit parade
plays songs we remember
from 30 years hence
testifying to the trek of time

Come on baby
(Don’t fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand
(Don’t fear the reaper)
We’ll be able to fly
(Don’t fear the reaper)
Baby I’m your man

We belt out the La, la, la, la la—
of Blue Oyster Cult’s classic hit
and dissolve into laughter,
because we are the oldies.

Narrowing the gap
between reaper and self,
we soar down a smooth black stream
from Lockport to Pandora
where Grandma Jill’s driveway
shines like a beacon unto us all.

The Land Yacht’s port of call.