Junkyard Ghost Revival

It was October, and New England was stupid with beauty.
Anis obsessively took out-of-focus photos of it streaming
by our van window, all blurry red-gold-orange. The four
of us - me, Anis, Buddy & Derrick - were old enough not
to lose our shit when Anis left the cash box in a hotel room
in Amhearst, but still young enough to be shameless suckers
for a roadside stands and ambitiously pretty waitresses.
I always thought on tours like this, I'd blow out my voice
by the third day, but I was wrong. I was right, however,
about bringing Presidential flash cards, lot of warm socks
and extra toothpaste. I was the only one in the van not nursing
a broken heart, and consequently, I made the worst d.j.
The world's largest and smallest hamburgers can be found
at the same diner in Pennsylvania in a town which also claims
to have a haunted corn maze and the state's best Shoofly pie.
We had to keep driving, though. The one day we had off was
spent in Maine: first, at an antiques shop selling dusty books
and tiny pewter birds we later learned were salt shakers;
and after at a lobster shack so close to the ocean, the wind
dried the butter to our chins before the napkins had a chance.
Every other night, we stomped on the hardwood, pulled books
out of boxes, then stuffed them right back in, we'd flopped down
on a series of different empty beds. But sometimes in between,
we'd marvel at the sky from the parking lot: the moon doing
its usual magic, the stars poking through the clouds, the air fresh
and slick and hopeful; tomorrow, not slowing down for a second.