We rush along to the lot, more of a junkyard if we’re lacking tact
With cars, robots, drones, cranes and all types of machinery disassembled
The clock strikes noon, and over a loudspeaker we hear
A shrill voice leading a demonic midday prayer
“Chosen ones, find it in your heart to stamp out hate at any cost
Your life, their life, one in the same, is proper blood spilled
Those fallen before you, were culled as they should be.”
A massive belltower dings twelve times, and my guide says to me,
“That’s your cue my son to get out of this state.
By nightfall the streets teem with infernal practicing
Their extracurriculars in hopes of finding in-flesh hosts and moments of reckoning.”
I help him hoist a tarp revealing five obscure vehicles, all from different eras
He winks, “just because I look Victorian does not mean,
I have not learned to get my hands dirty.
Be swift, and take 90 to the west
Your road gets brighter, I’m sure, when you hit Connecticut
For me I’m back to the haunted train where we first met
As something tells me there’s more travelers coming
To witness the chaos of this century
And perhaps, just perhaps, a way to steer clear of this agony.”
“My friend, before I go, I cannot thank you enough
For shielding me from this ominousness, maybe even death
There’s one question I ask before I’m on my way
A man named La Croix
Is he alive in this century?
“A wise idea to investigate such a figure
He indeed drops in from time to time.
Head to New York-
You’d find him there, if he’s currently on our timeline.”
Slightly confused by his coyness, I don’t question it and try to head off
As I eagerly choose the most obscure car on the lot
But still I cannot go,
Sitting completely flummoxed by a car with no pedal, brake, nor steering wheel.
My guide laughs heartily, and presses the ignition
A robotic voice hums over the speaker:
“Please choose your destination or your coordinates.”
Not sure where I’m to go, I blurt out the first place in my mind,
“Krispy Pizza, Brooklyn, NYC.”
The machine pauses and responds monotone
“I’m sorry your destination does not exist, but I found these coordinates,
If they will suffice in its place.”
“Good as ever, now make haste,
“Hurry! Please! This place gives me the creeps.”
I sit in awe as my vehicle whirrs away
Calmy touching seventy on city streets
With no cars in sight, I make it to the highway.
Avoiding pothole madness in a reverse game of whack-a-mole
MassDOT obviously disappeared with the tightening of the purse
But who could blame them with this thoroughfare so hauntingly empty.
Eventually 90 became 84 and we headed southwest
To a state border crossing, one I had yet to see, oh so ominous
Miles of abandoned vehicles and trailers, glowing with neon lights
Gargoyles perched on every road-sign
A fair warning to those not welcome, “you’d best turn around.”
Still I pressed along confident in my intent
When I come to a full stop flat
An archway above so agonizingly close, preventing my crossing.
A border patrolman comes out, inching closer, a rifle abreast
Surveying me and my vehicle, whether I’m any type of threat
A bright light flashes from his pocket
Too soon for me to blink
He yells with assertion, “State your destination.”
My hands clam up, my brow lined with sweat
“Oh dear god, what do I say?
Its true I’m just passing through, but is that information sufficient?”
“New York City sir, to visit a cousin for a reunion”
I hope my intuition works to keep it short and sweet.
The guard’s face grows stern as he approaches nearer
“You’re not in the national database, now cut out the lies.
And if you don’t, I’m trained to assume
You’re a New Hampshire spy, and your crime at my border is treason.”
He demanded my wallet and started shuffling through it
Anger turned to confusion as he started uncovering its contents
White knuckling an expired stack of credit cards
“What the point of counterfeiting artifacts so obtuse?”
Until the final card he unveils
It immediately uplifts his tune
A card, I sometimes forget,
That has been in my possession for years
It reveals an ode to a land of steep cliffs enveloped in fog
With a blessing of hope, in deep times of need
And in sudden revelation his world view makes sense
His scowl morphs into a shape far less obscene
He steps back, his rifle withdrawn
A moment of longing, etched on his face
He closes his eyes, mutters something, deep in contemplation
“Its so rare these days to see relics of faith in these northern parts
And coupled with these plastic relics,
Who am I to discern?
Perhaps you’re a ghost, a vision, a hallucination buried in my psyche,
But deep-down something whispers, that I have no right to apprehend you
Be quick, the cameras absolutely monitor everything
I’ll wipe the data I can, but I’m lost as to each iota that they scan.”
“Maybe they have my neck for it, but who am I to judge?
Like our state’s great hero, I now feel grounded in my conviction.”
“Thank you, dear friend” as he hands back my belongings,
“But you keep that one, as a token of my appreciation,
And protection from any wrath they try to strike upon you.”
“May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind always be at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
And rain fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again, may God
Hold you in the palm of His hand.”