Cabin 29

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:

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.


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