A Place Just Right
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
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