Kate,
I am south of Athens, somewhere
And the narrow road takes me
From faceless, dying small town
To another kudzu-ridden hamlet
And I am searching for the way
Back to Georgia sixteen and home.
The road passes from tree-dappled shade
To dry September sunshine
Past an abandoned service station,
With Good Gulf Gasoline,
Rust on the old metal pumps
Bleached like skeletons in the front
Prices painted permanently on the signs,
Grape Nehi advertised on the vending machine,
Drink coca-cola, take a long, cool sip
Through a dip in the road
And here I am in Rockville.
I have got to call you
And let you know what I have found.
And what is your response?
What could you say but
"Don't go back to Rockville, dad."
What else?
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