In Memory Of

The blue and yellow truck
Ordside painted on its doors,
bounces along the road
towing my sagging white Honda.

The driver, a heavyset white man
nicknamed Fuzzy, is hunched
over the wheel, dark
circles surround his eyes.

An empty Burger King soda cup
sits among fingerprints of grease
encased in a plastic holder, jiggling
with the rhythm of the engine roar.

On the glove box below a glossy print
of a smiling, blond-haired boy,
a black inscription glints, In Memory Of
I ask myself, Is this his brother? His son?
I do not ask the driver.

Instead he tells me
over the engine's grumble
how he got his nickname,
how his bladder is full, throat parched
been on shift 24 hours today.

His pants sigh under the weight
of years of grease.
Shoved in the panel of the truck
a lotto stub yearns for limos
and black tuxedos.

Behind us
the chains are monsters.
They pull, drag, clink.
Sparking gravel.

by E. M. Soos