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No Comments Rust Driven
Trudge slowly,
up to the tawny flecked steel of the fence.
Stare through the uniform squares
It’s there, rust eaten holes and all.
My father’s truck,
parked slightly away
from the crowd,
shunned.
Remember how my heart would race
at the heavy growl of the motor,
the daily rescue.
Remember how I would scramble
into the rusty brick cab,
and the smell of tobacco and old leather would greet.
Remember that small box in the middle seat,
where surprise candy bars and other riches were held.
Remember the open windows
that made flight possible
for us both.
Remember the clutch,
quivering with possibilites.
But ages were woven in that fence,
Causing the metal to
brown and flake;
Look at the wrinkled steel,
sliced open, for the rescue.
Look at the cab, the smell of asphalt and ache.
Look at the splintered box,
and its strewn trinkets.
Look at the shattered windows,
so like a sparrow
with clipped wings.
The gearshift is fractured and
can never teach again.
A greasy man walks out
and opens the hood,
hooking a chain around the block,
strangling it.
But that’s okay,
that heavy heart left a long time ago.
And natural mourning clocks in,
Right.
On.
Time.
The fence sways at my release.
A final goodbye
to the rusty truck that taught me so much,
shunned by the crowd
who never knew what it was like
to ride with open windows
and rust holes.
-Ryan Greenwood
