My Brother, the Truck Driver

Darren drove through Saskatchewan

and into North Dakota today. 

That’s when

he phoned home.


He didn’t mention what his truck was carrying,

but I’d imagine kitchen cabinets, men’s trousers,

two-ply toilet paper, 52-inch plasma screen televisions,

or, like me, a torch for you.



Lately I’ve been concerned about my imagination—

always getting away from me like

a yappy dog no one bothered to housetrain

and is now pissing all over the carpets

and the upholstery of my brain.


Case in point, I can picture you—

on that carpet,

on that upholstery—doing unmentionable but not unimaginable things.


I will mention that we should ceremonially drown carpet swatches

in merlot in honor of the parlor we’ll never decorate.

We should likewise burn pepper grinders

in honor of the family dinners we will not eat

and the daily grinds we will not succumb to—because

if you asked me I would leave today.

Before we take root.  Before

Saskatchewan is no longer attainable and my arm kind of hurts,

so down goes the torch.

One response to “My Brother, the Truck Driver

  1. i like this poem

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