Poem in Which My Old Man Hitches a Ride
/You know how fussy old men get? I'm an old man now myself and must follow in my father's footsteps, perhaps more by filling lines of poetry than by filling tires.
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It wasn’t too long before Father died
and fell down ashes, ashes tucked
in a jar that he pulled his Buick
up the filling station drive
and put air in the tires.
Thing is, at ninety-three
he could not get up once
he’d got down on his leathery
old haunches. So like a porcupine,
he rolled down the drive to the highway
edge where, quilled, furled, helpless,
he stuck out his thumb. In no time
at all, a good Samaritan comes by
and hauls him fifty feet back to
his car. The question being really
is it so important, a few pounds
short, to go to all that trouble?
As if we were nothing but air?
By Greg Zeck
From: United States
Website: http://www.youngzeck.com
Facebook URL: facebook.com/gregory.zeck