An ode to a resurrected 1977 Volkswagen Dasher on her maiden voyage through the Columbia Gorge.
You started singing a Queen song,
something about loving his automobile.
Mary in the back, talking drones and saying what she shouldn’t say.
She loves saying what she shouldn’t say.
Her Mississippi accent like the shadows of the clouds
on the hills across the river.
Nothing stays and nothing goes.
On the Washington side, I can still see home
looking over you and out the window.
Looking at you,
your hand on the clutch,
your eyes on the blue and tan horizon.
We follow the curves
below the cliffs
along the white lines,
hear the rough gravel
feel that old engine,