Party for misfits

For Kevin

I woke up to honking.
Peeked through the window,
there was an old VW van in the driveway.
Kevin Patrick Sullivan at the wheel,
shouting "hop in, Ben!"

I hollered back, "Where are we going?"
He laughed, "a party for misfits, and you're the MC!"
I threw on some jeans and a ratty T-shirt and off we went.

Patti and Kevin were in the front seats.
Jane handed me a tangerine from her icebox.
Glenna leaning over the cupholders to choose the station.
Ivan poured a cup of coffee from a thermos.

The morning fogged as we passed St. Lukes,
all the South County libraries,
Linnaea's and it's fish pond,
the hillsides blooming on the way to Coalesce Chapel.

On the way, we sang old songs as if they were new.
But the words kept changing. Kevin belted them out wrong,
but somehow they were better. We all went along with it.

As we got to Montaña de Oro,
everyone was there:
all the poets I'd known and lost,
all the poets still here,
all the poets yet to come.

The misfits let loose
and once the sun drops,
we shine on.