7. A Powerful Pulsing

When I was conceived this truck
idled smooth           smooth as Dad’s hair
slicked back                a finely tuned
smooth         a deliberate practiced
smooth

this is the story of how we begin to remember

but the truck I knew ran rough

these are roots of rhythm

rough like driving over cattle gates
rough like pedaling my bike over frosted
tractor tracks
rough like the palsied shaking
of the old farmers’ hands, lined up
in their wheelchairs along the long
hall of the county nursing home

and the roots of rhythm remain