The truck you drive is twenty years old.
Old steel and a heavy ride reminiscent
of your grandfather’s truck, an old
International Harvester, a product of the fifties,
simple and strong, an utter lack of amenities,
an impractical collection of steel and old springs.
It is the memories more than the truck itself
that make you keep the thing,
make you spend the silly amounts it takes
to keep it running,
a reminder of how impractical you can be,
and how your heart infects even old iron.
About this poem
I have a weakness for old things. Old cars (My newest car is 15 years old), old houses, Old furniture, and tools. Old things take more work to maintain, but there is something about them, a permanence, a history, stories that give them life.
It’s worth the work.
PS: I have a lot of quirky old friendships as well. And they too are worth the work.