This old truck
is all rickety and shakes
is all joints disjointed
is all wears and tears.

It is the bull that dozers
and uphill it goes-es
all spittin’ and coughin’
and roarin’
in wind and in rain
in sun and storm
in glory and vain.

It is a wagon
a workhorse
a truckload of junk
that my husband fills
with red clay bricks (and still it goes)
with chopped up wood (and still it goes)
with concrete and stones (and still it goes)
with dreams everlasting (and still it goes).

It is the ship
commandeered by my son
–not-quite man, but oh, no-longer boy–
through a sea of jungle,
valleys and hills,
whose permanent smile
sticks to his lips
as he conquers this world
and others in his head
on four mud-terrained wheels.
Yes, he is the captain of his summery days,
a childhood in the making.

It is the fortified castle of my girl
who braves imaginary armies
with fierce words and fantastic scowls,
fighting off real-life fears
that creep, and fly, and crawl.
Still, for her,
better to be stuck in
jungle and mud
than in a room of fractions,
divisions, multiplications,
and teachers in the corner
with the cane.

This old truck
all rattle-y and wrecked
groans up the pebbled hill
heaves us past that bamboo patch
sloshes through perennial mud
clings to the slopes
and rolls us over
the merry widow hill.

This old truck
is a scrap metal chariot
delivering us to dreams.

Cover image by Gimmel Magaway on Unsplash