It’s tucked at the end of a red dog road, Up where the mountain laurel has a firm grip And the snow stays through April. Securely remote, it even leans away From the others and the bustle of the square. The seasonal village was born of The Sons of Father Junipero Serra years ago, When communing with Nature was thought to Grease the hinges of Heaven’s Gate. My father-himself a Son-had bequeathed access to me Those same years ago, When I was thought to be a worthy successor. The woodshed and plumbing are a short walk Down a rocky path, made slick by the constant Mist and drip. Snow would be better. Difficult to walk at night with a flashlight and An armload of The Sons’ wet wood To feed a sputtering fire. The fireplace never drew for shit- Smoke tears blur the room. The rules are simple as rules go: NO BOOZE NO PETS NO VISITORS AFTER DARK The whiskey’s in a thermos under the sink And quarts of beer rest in burlap and ice In the car trunk. The cat sleeps in my suitcase under the table And Sherri, after coming in on the backseat Floor hidden by blankets and dirty clothes, Has yet to leave the bedroom, where My mother used to sleep. Sometimes even after getting away, You need to get away.