Visiting the Sick

We head north in a great March,
Travellers in a Coke can.
Leaning forward on the Kilmog,
Reclining on the plain;
Gauging how far?
How far now?
How far again.

I tell of yesteryear's cars:
The Mirage and the Gemini,
The Starlet with sheep damage.
Heavy, bronze and frosted,
Ancestral vehicles:
Our lineage
In the garage

Why are cars stellar, cosmic,
But shuttles named for the gods?
Launched into a tomorrow
Of magic cures and instapots,
Spiritual healing
Or toilet cleaning,
Python vs Apollo.

In those funeral songs:
"Into the Mystic", "Lamb of God”,
"Keep Left on State Highway One”,
Our lost estate in dirges,
Something emerges:
An apparition –
Mum riding shotgun

I ask: Are these last days
The most recent or the final?
Is what's next for real or doctrinal?
Ought I anchoress?
Estne eternal rest?
I try it on for size.
We stop for pies.