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Truck


  
                               
In the back lot is a broad-shouldered truck
father to a sleeker figure with fins
You have graduated to walking
                        (or sailing an electric model with no sound) but

the workhorse of your boyhood is patient
                        longing
parade watchers recall
                        the boulevard (though small) of the quarterback,
the professor, and the lifeguard

Your ears showed then and the cleft in your chin

yet it’s the softness in your eyes, headlights,
                        that have grown refined.

You feed the birds on the lanai and read
the signs from behind
                        glasses propped on your nose  
no vehicles required to reach

the spirit of the present

in your dreams you may be waxing the baby blue
buffing the hubcaps and grille, grateful for the heft
                        of the keys in your jeans pocket

but in daylight you squint and remember (I would
imagine) the long road and the hauling, the music
that still floats from the radio.


Thank you to the Santa Fe New Mexican for placing this poem for my father among their 2013 Writing Contest for all Seasons award winners, December 2013.

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