Make a right on the road with the prisons.

Once you’ve reached the biker bar

with the chickens in the parking lot, turn left.

Pass my house, and then the Wamsley house

that was burned last spring.

He’s still there some nights,

his orange tent between the dog sheds.

Just across from the private airport,

really only three two-wheeled planes left

outside all winter, there’s a long stretch of gravel.

If the gate isn’t open, get out. Unhook it quickly.

Drive, but slowly, once Charlie got stuck.

We all rocked his pick-up in our cocktail dresses

until someone finally came with cat litter

to unstick the wheels.

We’ll be in the glassed-in back porch, if

they haven’t learned to lock it yet. Walk

past the white church house, the red lettered sign:

For Those Who Come to Rest and Play,

A Prayer for Ken, Please Say Each Day.

We didn’t know Ken either. The swimming pool,

the tennis courts, the woods — they’re ours anyway.