Warping

I want to time travel,

go back to eighty-eight,

drinking kegged beer in a field,

maybe making out inside

the tree line, a hand under

my sweater,

or

lying on a beach, catching

and deflecting rays,

drenched

in the golden honey of youth,

skin supple, heads turning

to watch me walk past,

the rear view as rewarding

as the approach.

Maybe

fly down a state highway,

a scenic byway, two-lane

sunbleached blacktop

glittering in the sun,

a sparkly ribbon

through the trees,

windows down, hair blowing

out of the car, a vintage

SuperBeetle

with plaid upholstery,

no reverse, Pirelli tires,

and a Blaupunkt stereo

blaring The Grateful Dead

and The Cult, Beastie Boys,

Bananarama, and Violent Femmes,

smoking a joint with a friend,

Southbound with Statesboro Blues,

Georgia Southern beckoning:

frat parties in a damp county

with dry Sundays.

I could reboard the Southern Crescent

down to Mobile

and on to New Orleans,

hurricanes at Patty O’s,

flaming Dr. Peppers

at the Goldmine,

mind erasers

sucked through straws.

Just bring me back

to the here and now

before the hangover sets in.