The dented right fender’s rusted.
Plastic bags seal the driver’s side window.
Dull red paint blankets its body.
Under paper-thin skin, knotted veins bulge.
Crevices slice the worn face; dry eyes peer
from behind smudged glasses.
The old man grabs the keys;
gnarled hands brace a body stooped into a comma.
He shuffles to the door.
The motor sputters,
groans into action,
shimmies down fissured asphalt.
From a crack in the concrete driveway
a violet sprouts, opens
to embrace a sun-filled day.
Down the street, around the corner
a rattletrap truck and its owner
creak into their future.
This poem is loosely based on my grandfather’s 1950’s something red Ford pick up truck. Many happy memories there. When he retired as a civil engineer at age 70, he went up into California gold country, struck a claim, built a cabin, climbed the Sierra to find a source of water, piped it down and worked the mine that was assayed at $.65/ton. It kept him going till he was 88 and lost his vision. He died at age 94.
Linking to dVerse Poet’s Open Link Night where the doors are wide open, waiting for you to stop by and help celebrate 100 weeks of poetic inspiration. Thank you Brian and Claudia and all who tend and participate.