SANDUSKY

Cruise control on eighty, zooming through Ohio,
head tilted out the driver's side window;
sweet roar of wave crash in my ears.
I'm feverish with joy like a scout by a fire,
till my car catches the fever and breaks down.
A wrecker tows me forty to the nearest town --
not unlike others around, with their all pro dreams
and homecoming queens.

Waiting out the repairs in some little dive,
I'm booted from my barstool when this ex-cheerleader arrives.
A camera crew rolls in behind her. The barflies get curious.
Rumors of her past fly fast and scurrilous.
The vixen's later confirmed a local, who after turning eighteen,
bought new pom poms and leased 'em to a men's magazine.

An hour later she's outside the Five and Dime kicking up dirt
in a white lace halter and mini skirt.
Wilting under neighboring eyes,
her father shoos cameramen like flies.
His cheeks go ruddy with Puritanical shame,
till he eyes his new Caddie, says he's happy she came.
Freckle faced boys shadow the crew down Main,
idling their dirt bikes, hoping to catch some skin.

Wandering back to the mechanic, I do some valve work on my mind,
The old memories are leaking; and my steering's poorly aligned.
My dad -- when I was a kid, how he'd roust me from bed,
"Rise and shine, sleepy head."
We'd shovel down scrambled eggs,
then he'd head out to his car, dinged as a fraternity keg.
He worked at a plant thirty miles or so east of Toledo.
I begged him not to go,
but he shook me from his leg and left.
Gravel spat from the back tires of his Chevette
painted blue as the sky -- and I know why
he left me bawling in the driveway.
It wasn't to get to work -- no --
it was to go.

Broke now that my car's fixed, I jerk her in gear.
Most with drive are propelled by fear,
with nowhere to get but somewhere they're not --
like it or not, an impossible spot.
Here everything is obvious and unclear.
I've no destination -- just driving --
with the goal in mind to always be arriving.
A bruised eye swelling in a blood smeared sky,
the sun is pushed under a hump of horizon
and bleeds through the liquid valleys of Vermillion;
it's the color of the water now, where the yacht lights of the well bred
crawl toward Catawba and Marblehead.

Wind washed, I shed my face in the crush of air,
feeling lean, clean, stripped bare,
and strangely essential. Amid furrows freshly mowed,
A state trooper waits in ambush by the side of the road.
The invisible crickets hum in the tall grasses.
His cruiser shudders as mine passes.
He whoops and flashes his turrets.
Though I really can't afford another ticket,
I pull off to the berm, watch him in the rear view mirror.
He calls in my plates, gets out, then sidles up to my door,
"Any idea how fast you were going?"
"Really fast," I tell him, "chasin' sunsets, and I'm sorry."
He says, "Always cheaper to wait till morning,"
but then smiles, shreds the ticket, lets me off with a warning.

It is mid-summer. People tune out the crickets,
but will miss the riot in the autumn quiet.
At an alley named The Broken Wall
starched bowling teams polish their balls
and throw them through unions of picketing pins.
Dusk settles over the hills like a woman.
A gentle smothering darkness follows her.
It is beautiful here, swimming through June.
Family rooms glow sulphur blue.
Hovered over TV dinners, husbands watch their teams,
while wives wash dishes and clothes and dream
of new endings. Enveloped in steam
rising from tubs of suds and checkered ironing boards.
Saddened by fantasies they can't afford
they sigh with despair,
then wipe sweat and damp hair
from their foreheads with the backs of their wrists,
ruminating over romance novels and shopping lists.

On a day like today, I can drive away trouble;
whether ahead or behind, I can go half-speed or double.
A breakdown can be a lucky break;
your intentions gain no more than is lost in your wake.
Today life seems conversant with me --
every roadsign, personal, every bird chirp in key.
And there's that song again.
God, I love this band!
and these watery wave swells of green and gold land.
What you can't take with you, you leave behind
so make your song after playing worth hitting rewind.
Like a bowling ball I'm rolling down this road that's unscolling
through all the political polling and turnpike tolling.
A blue ribbon of highway, as Guthrie would say --
America seems more than a brand name today.
And if it's true that there's a God in heaven,
thank You for what you did in seven.
I miss you dad -- remember that riddle? --
What's round on the corners and hi in the middle?
Uncle Tupelo hints with a pretty little fiddle.
Tweedy and Farrar accompany me through
a smalltown sundown, with the world gone all black and blue,
but there is a light,
shining behind a wedge of knitted night,
cut by tree tops
and this winding road.