I’m elated to breeze through customs
in my Maybach Landaulet
at the St. Stephen’s border crossing,
leaving the threat of radiation
and insurrection behind me.

Driving all night under a winter canopy
of sputtering stars, a silver sliver of moon
points the way to a safer world
at my summertime Shangri-la.

At the first scarlet bruise of dawn
my eyes begin to close.
I’m back at Benzel-Busch,
who sells cars beyond your expectation.

Shafts of sunlight shine
through translucent walls,
illuminating a black tile floor
and desks of glass and chrome.
Whirling dust motes stunned in place,
listen to “si michiamono Mimi.”

Salesmen in Italian shoes
run back and forth,
offering coffee and nano clips
on how to drive mechanized mules.

Pinochet and Noriega
do a syncopated tap dance.
They shimmy down marble stairs,
as if they were in an MGM show,
and drive away in armoured cars.

Slamming into a guard rail,
I emerge unscathed.
Through Alpine speakers,
La Boheme perfumes the air.

A robust Mountie checks my blood level,
singing an aria with blazing feeling.
An enlightened being, he reminds me: It’s the journey,
not the destination that matters.