A Place Just Right

The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.

We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
'When we find ourselves in a place just right
Twill be in the valley of love and light.'

I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.

Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
Is this the right place? I ask.
It’s as close as we get, says the driver.