This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

My Road Trip With the Polka Queen

May 24 2009

She holds it upside down,

scanning the map

for odd names, open spaces.

Invents off-ramps, and getaways

in the frayed no-man’s-land

of its folds.

There are plenty of those,

fanning open wider than her out-stretched arms

poking-in her nose.

She plays navigator like she plays accordion -

my polka queen, cavorting out-of-reach,

pumping-out squares and reels

wheezing slightly off-key.

And so we go, to and fro,

reversing-up gravel roads

bumping over farmers’ fields

sinking axle-deep in swamp.

She pirouettes, I watch

obediently taking her lead -

an inexperienced dancer,

counting steps

eyes fixed on my feet.

At dusk, we stop

unroll the tent

go early to bed.

Then spend the night

learning to tango.

When a friend, a spouse, or a lover is riding shotgun and in charge of the maps, you may be at the wheel, but you eventually learn that the path of least resistance is total surrender.