’86 Pickup
A surfeit of manna,
pregnant with intention:
broomstick, hose, brush, bucket,
gasoline.
Ligature of scratches,
tattoo of deckstain,
spent containers.
Sandpaper knees,
blind to work and weather,
a Japanese heart designed to
tick and pump to the
ends of centuries.
Notes on the windshield from
landscapers, plumbers.
A farmworker eyes the overlong
bed like the vale of
a woman’s waist.
Dad’s name on the warranty.
An uncanny knack for
never breaking down.
Sometimes, it’s the only thing in
life that does not disappoint.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV
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