I remember the white VW bus.
Butterscotch gingham curtains.
Fat spare tire on the back.
Hours spent hanging with my Dad at the corner gas station
– you know the ones –
where the ding-ding of service calls
signaled a good old day
at the while-you-wait, greased-up, blue-shirt-clad-worker, fix-it shop.
The place where they hiked The Bus up high
and tinkered with whatever kept stalling it
in the bakery parking lot on Saturday mornings.
I remember The Bus.
And I remember how
a bus to take them 1,00 miles from somewhere, everywhere,
the dust of the road.
Shake off the sludge of the
Open the sun roof and let it all hang out.
That’s what I need.
And that’s where I’ll be.
To who knows where.
As long as it’s away.
See you later.
Take good care.