the road once taken

you take your grandmother
on the road with you.
she sits in the back
seat with her small dog
in a basket. she's
smoking a cigarette
and has a can of beer
between her legs. her dress
is red and purple
with swirls of bright pink.
she tie dyed it herself.
she says she slept
with jack Kerouac once,
and he was no writer,
or lover just a mixed
up booze hound. you're
driving too slow she
says, as you hug the right
lane. hit the gas sonny.
let's see what this
jalopy can do.
let's go to California
she says. let's take
the blue roads, like
I used to do with your
grandfather. we'd score
dope the whole way to
san Francisco, picking
up hitchhikers, singing.
sleeping out under the stars.
you look into the rear view
mirror and see her blowing
smoke rings out the window.
we need some mushrooms, she
says. and tequila.
finally you arrive at
the drugstore and take her
prescription into
the pharmacist. don't forget
my magazines, she says,
yelling out the window.