Fog and drizzle great me
as I drive my Bug west on the Pike,
Pilgrim Hat signs
with an arrow stuck through them
pointing the way.
The headlights reflecting off the fog,
as semi’s barrel by kicking up a storm,
the car immersed in a baptism of oily water
my hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
On the cheap AM radio
I listen the the gravely voice of Wolfman Jack,
playing the latest hits of hippies in Frisco
about half naked young women
dancing in the sunlight with flowers in their hair,
the music fading in and out
on the tinny sounding speaker
crackling and popping with static.
Nightime grows deeper and darker,
roadside reflectors glow
guiding my way forward.
Tiny windshield wipers pulsing furiously
as fog and drizzle grow dense
while I continue west into the dark night.
The radio now my only connection
with the world
as stations fade away
I turn the knob searching
for that one station
where the music is pure soul
as I sing my heart out
looking forward to seeing her face
at the end of the journey.