Uncle's F-150

The rumble woke me, through the floorboards,

a low growl from the street.

That F-150, idling, like old chords

played wrong, or too beat.

Rusted tailgate, a map of neglect,

paint peeling back like sun-dried skin.

Greasy black smoke, a quiet, crude eject

from the pipe, where the exhaust begins.

Just like his, my uncle’s. That heavy door,

the smell of old coffee and sawdust inside.

We’d pile in, four kids or more,

for trips to nowhere, just to ride.

It’s still out there. Still shaking the glass.

Waiting for something that will never pass.