by William Eichler
Dad and I ride in his pickup, the shit seat in between —
small talk and pleasantries fill that space along with my
favorite pick of his music. He’s got good taste.
I’d like to think he’s where I got mine from.
His fingers drum along on the steering wheel, and
his voice, a hint of it anyway, rises up between us.
He can’t sing for shit, never could,
But his thumb drums aren’t bad.
His phone goes off to the
tune of a fire call but he doesn’t have a thing
to do with that on his day off.
My hands rest in my pockets.
Actually, '"rests" might not be the right word —
they’re antsy as all hell.
I’m not sure why. It’s like I need to tell him something,
but I’m not sure what. I’m not sure when the last time
I told him something was. I guess I could just tell him
how I’m doing. Things haven’t been great lately.
The truck comes to a stop and backfires like a gun.