Hard to finger a place outsiders can't get,
but a hand-lettered sign kiltered to a slanted
wooden pole slows the intersection with progress.
Lampman is old-fashioned dirt, its washboard
will loosen bolts in the finest Saab,
bounce it to Ratchet's Garage where Bob
torques the lesson unpaved living stored.

Lampman's mostly hill, a place wide enough
for one, an avenue that understood
chicken long before boys discovered
there are ways not to grow old.
During deep winter, locals know this dirt
shames the best pavement Macadam can plot
and will give no heave of protest from the cold.

The rich mud-- that twice yearly bath
which restores sanity to earth and like
the white church in the village reminds
us once of death, and once of life--
Even the rich mud is navigable to the patient
and the wise: avoid the shoulders and the rush--
Rhythms echo gently and the best echoes hush.