Poem: Farm Truck by Maureen Ash

Farm Truck

Well, we’re spending a rainy morning in the truck.
Mr. and Mrs. Old Farm Couple
driving to buy seed and to visit my niece, 
bundling the trips to save on fuel.

Spring and a light rain, 
corn poking up like rows of lit matches
burning green out of the ground, today’s drizzle
like gasoline to their little flames,
just weeks till this countryside is torched
with corn.

Windshield wipers flop and rest,
flop and rest.  One work glove curls on the floor
fingers flexed as if it still wants to grip
the pliers or twine.  Tool box, a tarp 
to cover the seed once we’ve bought it, 
a railroad spike we use sometimes
when hauling a hay rack.  

On the freeway we putz
in the slow lane, passed in flumes of spray
by cars and tightly muscled newer pickups
almost perky in their powerful lines.  

The long crack in our windshield shines
silver as our hair.  Not far now.

Maureen Ash