Wednesday, February 20, 2008

red truck

my dad didn’t own a red truck
until we moved to Mississippi
(the ranchero not qualifying on account of being too sissy)
after the exodus, they came and went
like the latest trends in women’s lipstick shades

we were riding in the latest incarnation
a toasted scarlet super cab
built for hauling men and their gear
from construction site to
wilderness
and back

dad driving of course
me riding shotgun

some rather ill-humored brain function
churning up memories of
prior rides
tossing them into my consciousness
like chunks of raw meat to a pack of
hunting dogs

a voice (gnarled by age, still imposing)
breaks the drone of wheels on pavement
Dad speaking

you know, your mom and i
talked
and while we know that
we may not have been the best parents
you kids turned out allright

the road hums on
physical distance from here to there
knowable, measurable
emotional distance confined within the super cab
more adequately described in terms
of the calculus

i should have a response
twenty-plus years of nomading myself
journeying far and wide
seeking what hadn’t been given
had been taken
i should have a response

the road hums on
me and my dad
riding in the red truck
again

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