we're not old

it's a ribbon of road
that takes
us there.
black tar, white striped.
it rolls
along, beside the corn fields,
the melons
in rows, all the way
to the eastern shore,
where the ocean
waits, like it always has
each summer.
we roll the windows
down
and sing to the radio.
we're not old,
but we're getting there.
we're getting there.