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Pick-up Truck By Patty Butkovich Gautier MS
It’s a quarter to twelve No need to look at the clock I know the time because I find myself listening, Straining to hear the familiar sound Of daddy’s little black pick-up truck, New about 10 years ago, As he shifted into second gear To climb the steep gravel driveway, Then the slam of the screen door on the porch “Dinner ready?” as he breathed in the aroma Coming from the pot roast on the stove, Threw the denim cap Upside down on the floor, The sweat stained head band showing, And walked to the kitchen sink to wash away the field dirt.
The stove is cold today The air just air to breathe Mother wanders slowly into the kitchen Stands by the window and stares At the tailgate of the truck Protruding from the garage.
She’s been listening too.
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