driving the "Grand Army of the Republic"

route 6, and my oldman drove a heavy car.

an expert on the road. no fatalities. not too fast but 

tenaciously onward! single-mindedly toward the ocean

the foamy head at the Head of the Meadow.

straight up 6... northward and eastward the sea alongside,

parallel to him,–– a true nor’easter!

(none of weatherman or weather-girl, although

weather-girls were sure alright,–– tight dresses, perfumed

and hair-sprayed pointing the way to Provincetown!)

heavy Roadmaster king of the road guzzling gas. a buck a gallon.

the real good stuff agitated by lead and the man at the wheel.

salt at the brim of his soft fedora. a sales ledger in his pocket.

knock 'em down booze to sell like a champ’s Susie-Q.

the never-ending road. –– like to kill him. maybe it did. but I’m well fed.

food in my belly and Corso’s “Gasoline” makes sense at the table.