U-Haul Truck

Daniel Eastman

She had her ashy, chapped heels up

on the dashboard

of the U-Haul truck.

She had slipped her torn, tattered Chuck Taylors

on the floor

of the U-Haul truck.

Olive-toned, tatted up, bicycle thighs

rode high in the August breeze

of the U-Haul truck.

Skin-deep symbols of self-expression extended

from her knees to her feet

in a U-Haul truck.

Bare legs sweated and stuck to pleather seats

of a U-Haul truck.

It was an older model,

boxy with low-throttle,

no CD player, no adapter, just a burned-out tuner,

only static between the two of us,

in a U-Haul truck.

Oh, the radio silence

of a U-Haul truck.

Man, six hours is a long way with nothing to say

to an ex-friend and an old flame

in a U-Haul truck.

Former consorts, now nonconcentric,

found a means to their ending

in a U-Haul truck.

We had packed and strapped our belongings in the back,

locked down that ratcheted latch

of a U-Haul truck.

She always owned more stuff, I had noted morosely--

collections of books, mostly unread, records, and ephemera--

in the U-Haul truck.

I on the other hand, had my own motives,

always ready to go,

with no notice,

just a stack of clothes and a bag to tote it

in a U-Haul truck.

And now it’s her and me and these catalytic rumblings,

refusing to be muffled

in a U-Haul truck.

That summer was so hot, man,

the heat was oppressive,

I was running a temper, I was hotheaded, I was aggressive,

in a U-Haul truck.

I gripped fistfuls of steering wheel

and my knuckles turned bleach white

in a U-Haul truck.

I kept turning to speak, seeking something to say,

I’m not looking for a do-over

but there’s no excuse for a cold shoulder

in a U-Haul truck.

We had hatchets to exhume and ice to break,

in a U-Haul truck.

A languid drive begun

under a leonine late-August sun

in a U-Haul truck.

Three hundred and sixty minutes matched the miles

of muted mouths and dials

in a U-Haul truck.