Hippie Highway

Driving this time-warp microbus, tired,
I stop for hitchhikers near Mendocino.
They reject the ride, call it junk.
Punks.

At the Oaks Cafe I'm the only customer
along with six kids riding tricycles around the tables
while two moms help themselves to beer from the cooler.
The cook who is also the waitress has a star
in her nose and owns one of the kids.
She calls me "Sir" until I make her stop.
I ask if the pie is fresh and she says, "No,
it's as stale as our coffee. Have a brownie.
They're, um, spiced."

Now it's dark as I drive down 101
with headlamps dim as doobie tips, not even aimed right,
some big rig might not even see
before plowing into me
so I follow a camper truck painted in mushrooms
that glow and fade as my lights work and don't.
Somehow the funky camper seems to feel a kinship
and sets a slow rhythm, a two-vehicle conga line
across the Golden Gate.
They are my shield and protector,
the driver with beard and leather hat,
the affectionate woman beside him
glancing back from time to time
between kisses. Chugging slowly home
let it be known
there are loving angels, yet today,
on the hippie highway.

A slightly different version of this poem was published in Slipstream.

To hear a recitation of this poem, go to the external link (paper clip) at the bottom of this display.