I miss you, Dad.
Old Crow
Every time I climb
Into the cab of a
Pick-up truck
Bench seat cracked and sagging
Dash faded by
Years of sunshine
Steering wheel
Stained by epoxy or paint
Needing a little jiggle
Between second and third gear
I hear your voice
Singing “Number Nine Coal”
Smell manure and tarmac
Cut grass becoming hay
Feel the sun heat my shoulder
Through the open window
Of the neon orange truck
Where on rainy days we got lost
On crumbling roads
Bordered by stone walls
Stands of maple and white pine
Telling one another stories of
Crows inviting us to fly
Over trees, roof tops and
Rivers full of pickerel and wide mouth bass
Escaping the gravity of sorrow