Before you were the red truck

by Kim Groninga

Before you were the red truck
for my father

Before you were the red truck
you were tin snips and saw blades,
pumps and scales and screwdrivers.
You were duct–taped injuries
and loads of wood for the winter.
Before the truck, sideburns curled
around your wing–sized ears
and you were drive–ins and cigarettes.
You were 50’s long car Chrysler
and rollerskates and BB guns.
But you weren’t the red truck.

You weren’t. But you were heavy handwriting
in counter–top notebooks and coffee.
You were folded, buttered toast dipped in milk.
Before the truck, ARMY boots enveloped your ankles
and you were peach circus peanuts and songs sung on cassettes.

From what I remember, you were dark blue coveralls.
You were naps on the couch, one arm bent across your eyes. Just
like me.
You were fish sandwiches and dark glasses and Brylcreem.
You were butterscotch malts.
Aftershave.
Cancer.

Then you were the red truck.
And then you were gone.