the bumper to bumper traffic on Dickerson Pike is, at the best of times really rather bad.
it’s a long hot dusty road.
well traversed by the lost…
the lonely…the lookin’.
there is no sidewalk.
walk the tight rope.
only a treacherous semi dirt crumbled tarmac with an ankle bustin’ precipice.
we’re almost up the hill.
our home on our backs splutters and dies.
what once would have freaked us out merely causes us to smile.
at each other.
now we prepare.
a caravan meant not for many a days journey.
a 420 big block with a twelve gallon tank.
“are you sure we are out?”
but block she does.
a full lane.
cars pass by. furiously.
drivers rev engines, irritate and raw from the trouble we’re in.
their’s the inconvenience.
horn’s honk. few people smile.
one gallon proves too small. and flatter land is sought.
stoppin’ barely of gleamin’ used car lots
and bright yellow chain fence, short.
a red faced salesman stands hands on hip and disapproves.
more fuel is needed. fetched from a down the road.
five o’clock to wish they were home.
yell and groan. honk and squeal.
the light goes green to red. yet cars stand still.
now this should work. more fuel in the beast.
turn the engine quick.
lets get out of this fix.
oh no, one thing more….
the ignition goes click
….reflections on a retro life on the roads of Nashville, in an antique motorhome with vernon rust folk-rockslinger