She goes Sunday driving on a Tuesday,
eating a garden on rye at a shoreline cafe.
Got to blow this town and go on down
far from all those city sounds.
She voted by mail so she’s ready to set sail.
Don’t know how to drive with these marshmallow eyes.
Past the farmers and the truckers.
Past county lines into the mountainsides.
Instant change of attitude with a change in the altitude.
Far from the soldiers rehearsing for battle
and the grazing, lazy cattle.
On a park bench in the woods there she stood.
Out where the only connection is between her soul and heaven.
Where grass grows higher into gentle clouds,
and nothing roars like the ocean loud.
Where moss climbs towering trees,
and trumpet shaped flowers climb the ridges free.
Where hippies go to hike,
and everything feels alright to tourists and locals alike.
Secluded in the pines out of touch with this thing called time.
It’s a place to come on Election Day
when you just ain’t sure which way
the country’s going to sway.
This train wreck is too fascinating to look away.
She’ll listen to the returns as she makes her return,
but for now she’s free wandering the bay
for this was all just a temporary stay.