You said, watch for the dirt road off the highway
a mile or so past the gas station
and before you get to the big red barn.
The road has no name, you added, but take it.
And keep going, mile after mile,
long beyond the point where you feel as if
you’re not getting anyplace.
Best turn off the radio, was your instruction
because with the thick forest trees and granite cliffs
you’ll pass, the best you’ll hear is static.
So be your own radio, sing every song you know,
commercial-free. But watch out for deer.
Then it was, take a left, a right, a kind of left,
then a right at the fork: (if it still is a fork:
what with the last storm taking all those trees down)
until you reach the rickety wooden bridge
over the creek.
Say a prayer for your tires, if you haven’t already,
and then bump your way over it.
You should start to see occasional houses then,
okay, cottages, but these are the hardy folk
who really do want to live as far away
from civilization as possible.
Ignore the satellite dishes.
And the four-wheel-drive tanks of course.
Mine is the brown A-frame
without the giant satellite dish on top
and no four-wheel-drive monster
in the makeshift driveway.
Come on in. I’ll be waiting for you.
These are the kinds of directions
love often lays out for me.
I’ve a lot of miles on me.
I haven’t got there yet.