Sinking father’s truck.

We hop into what used to be our father’s rusted, muddy truck, our faces barely sticking up above the mud-dusty steering wheel, our noses nosing up beyond the even dustier dash, where our dirty boy hands have left their fingers’ dirty prints in the filmy dirt, and the two of us brothers drive, down to the muddy river, down to the water where so much of our life takes place, us, going slow now, taking the long way through this dirty river town, this, to give what’s no longer a piece of our father, our father’s rust-pitted pickup truck, a last showing, a final hurrah, this, all done in the beautiful rain, this, in the lateness of night, the town’s people put up in their beds, or hunched over in bars, or parked in front of their TVs, the streets left to their loneliness, the town’s lone traffic light blinking yellow from all four sides – us, brothers, look at us, trucking our way down the river line, the river and the river winds and those rivery smells of fish and worms alwats at our river sides, us, slowing down now, after a while, and us brother cutting the wheel and pointing it straight ahead into the river’s face, us in our father’s truck gassing it down to where the river’s road runs itself out into a dead-end, do-not-go-any-further point in this story, a rusted metal guardrail telling us brothers to turn this truck back, turn ourselves back around, that this, the beginning of this dirty river, this is the end of our dirty river road.  But this, no, this: this is not what us brothers want you to see.

from "Muddy Truck, Rusty River" – from Good, Brother by Peter Markus


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