Your father’s truck
coughed once and died
and he rumbled out
to clank and bang and curse
beneath the hood.
We sweated
on the bench seat.
We said nothing,
sat hip to hip,
your skinny bare leg
pressed beside mine.
You still smelled
of the springs: fresh and cold
and full of minnows
and in my head
I begged the truck
to stay broken
and buoy this moment
until you were done
swimming through me.
This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
