I talk about my old truck as if it were a human
and the pool ladies laugh.
Haven’t any of them named their cars
with some word that fits its
quirks and foibles or even its disasters or heroics.
My truck is named Grumpy
a name that fits this small white,
short bed, step sided truck
that isn’t a sports car –
something I tell the Valet race car wanna be’s
who never listen to me.
It is now on his third clutch and second clutch plate,
now on it’s fourth or fifth dashboard cluster
now on it’s three inch stack of repair orders
with only eighty thousand miles.
Then again, I don’t listen to me very well
today repeating my five point fall
of two years ago
rushing and running to get to work
not watching where I go
as I’ve gone that way a million times before
tripping over a rise in the sidewalk
to land horizontally
with only Grumpy as my witness
I now add to my own repair orders.