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