Peggy and I attended the ASGA annual meeting in Orlando in February.  Driving there isn’t much like driving back home in Felton.

We did a little traveling,
   We bought a GPS.
Old-fashioned maps aren’t good enough,
   At least that’s what I guess.

Instead of ink and paper,
   It’s electrons from the air,
That tell us to turn right or left
   To get us over there.

“Turn left in seven hundred feet,”
   The voice says from the dash.
Then we must quickly think about
  Which pedal we should mash.

To jump in front or sneak behind
   The car that’s in our way,
There’s room between those two big trucks;
   I think we’ll be OK.

We make the corner just in time,
  The light is barely pink.
We wait with bated breath as Garmin
   Takes a pause to think.

The voice that gives instructions
   Has no malice and no scorn.
But I couldn’t hear it
  O’er the honking of that horn.

It seems the guy behind us
   Has a slightly different thought,
Just which part of this highway
   The tax he paid has bought.

The voice comes on and tells me
   The next turn we will need.
I settle in the center lane
   At the posted speed.

I really thought the number
   In the white sign on the post
Told the drivers on the road
   The speed that is the most.

But on this road, at this time,
   There seems a natural flow.
I see a car back in my mirror,
   Then round me it will go.

The passing drivers frown at me
   As if they want to say,
“You have no business being here
   Upon this road today.”

And while it’s fun to travel
   And ’round this country roam,
I start to wish that I could press
   The icon that’s marked Home.