The Body

of an old truck

dented, pitted, sun-spotted,

rusted by weather and work,

idles at a stoplight.

the peeling cab lining holds

the habit of everyday morning cigarettes

mixed with yesterday’s coffees gone

staler than the dreams of a boy

unprepared for the toil

that callouses a man’s hands and heart.

the tire treads look more new than old,

and the engine hums with the guttural grace

of a ritually maintained machine.

the sound carries notes of care and sweat

under halogen bulbs pushing back night

gathering at the open garage door,

care that’s outlasted three wives

and the kids of other failed marriages.

the driver’s heart cracked only once

when a pony-tailed granddaughter,

who’d ride shotgun on sunday mornings

and demand, put out that cigarette,

—which he always did—

had gone swimming in the river

and ended up face down.

he lights another cigarette,

balances it on his bottom lip

like a second tongue,

lets the smoke of his breath

do all his talk.