Her love so intense 
frightens the kids.
They shrink from her kisses.
“I wuv you, too,” says Lily, 
testing the words.

Gramma from the flatlands of Florida 
walks our mountain road and is scared 
the kids will fall off. 
They say “Off what?”
“The road.”
“Why would we fall?”

She watches Crime and Punishment on PBS. 
She read it years ago—in Russian.
I want to watch Corvette Summer on ABC. 
She agrees to please but it’s so bad, 
after ten minutes I’m embarrassed. 
We switch to PBS and watch in awe 
as Gramma talks back to the characters 
in Russian, words she doesn’t want 
the kids to understand.

At the airport 
she kisses us all 
with big noisy smacks that mean
we’ll never see her again.
                        

Grandson, 
unlike most of humanity 
enjoys the sound of my singing, 
so together we make up songs. 

He at ten weeks 
with green eyes, jug ears 
and the occasional goofy smile 
is an honest audience, a toothless critic 
who enjoys lengthy vowel sounds: 
	ooo ooobie  
and
	gree-een eyes, green eyes, 
	gree-een eyes, green. 
He frowns upon hard consonants.

Did Beethoven sing to babies?
Did Buddha?
He shoulda.
I compose, grandson edits, 
new melodies fill the room.
Don’t listen.
                        

Gas station, Half Moon Bay. 
“You going south?” 
“Only ten miles.”
“I’ll take it.” 

Her face undamaged, suburban. 
Blue eyes with spark but older, not a teen. 
Her duffle and backpack look brand new.

Before starting the motor I say, 
“Seatbelt, please.”
“Oh.” An indulgent smile, dimpled. Click.
In this truck I ferried kids to school every day.
By golly you strap in or I won’t start 
because I’m an old fart with rules. 

A ratty nylon jacket, blue jeans torn at the knee. 
“Where’d you start from?” I ask.
“Montana.”
She’s freshly scrubbed, no road dirt. 
“What part of Montana?” I ask.
“My last home was Hawaii.”

From islands to Montana to  
California seems a bent path.
“You running away?” I ask.
“Sort of.”
“Where you going?”
“Santa Cruz. Or Monterey. 
Or maybe San Luis Obispo.”

I tell her how I used to hitch all over the USA
until I gave up bad habits. I ask
“What’s the best ride you ever got?”
“I dunno” She fidgets. “I’ve had lots.”
She’s lying, I realize. But why?
Her and her spotless backpack. A paperback 
peeking from a pocket, Gary Snyder.

“You don’t know how bad it can go 
on the road,” I say.
“Yes I do,” she says.
“I don’t believe you.”
She says nothing.

Ten miles south at San Gregorio Beach I stop. 
As she climbs out, bending forward, 
her pants fall half way exposing a pink butt, 
no panties. “Oops, loose jeans,” she says, 
hitching them up. She peers back at me. 
My move.

Oh God. To be young and frisky-risky.
“Good luck,” I say. 
She frowns, lifts the duffle, 
the unscuffed backpack. 
“I hope you get there safely.” 
I mean it with all my heart.