Ode to Sam Hill

I finally found
a moment.
One of those elusive bastards
I've been after for years.

We were driving along the coast
having just finished a hike to a hilltop lighthouse
and a discussion about how people probably find beauty
wherever they're planted.
But who are we kidding?
We live in Oregon, not Kansas.

Stan Getz was my winsome co-pilot
along with two tweenagers who refused to look up from their cellphones
and, of course, my baldman,
who described the day as "gauzy,"
which was characteristically acute
until the sun came out.

Which it did on our way South to Florence,
a town that's less a West Coast version of Italy
and more a relentless sand dune
where Fred Meyer sells crab nets
next to the Kraft singles.

So I wasn't really headed anywhere.
There was no other place I needed to be. I was just
going.

I had both hands on the wheel when it happened
and I lost myself in the concrete flesh
of Highway 101,
leaning into each TURN AHEAD sign
like a kiss from a woman way out of my league.

I didn't even notice the soap bubble of my moment
until my phone chirped a text message
from a client looking for a French bikini wax
and it popped.

Because I had no idea what a French bikini wax even was,
only that, like the road,
it had something to do with a woman's curves.

Then the opening credits started scrolling again
and the words returned to ruin my moment
like they always do.
So now I'm writing about a magnificent stretch of Highway 101
when all I really want is to chase the dragon
of time
until I can feel it from the inside again.