Forty miles an hour up old route 1A,
Wending rolling weaving its asphalt path from Boston to Portland,
Salem Ipswich Rowley Newbury Freeport Camden
Charting our progress less by the miles rolling up the odometer
Than by the years proudly proclaimed on tiny little plaques –
1739, 1692, 1891, 1775, 1835, 1831,
Mounted to the sides of hotels and houses and homes
Clad in shingles and brick and siding
In a thousand shades of pastels and browns
And another shades of disrepair.

The sky is gray and sheathed in clouds,
Promising rain in cool, chill whispers,
Not yet, we plead. Not yet.