Red Pickup

Old red pickup truck sits;
shine gone from the finish.
He sits rocking,
remembering when he could drive.
Gleam gone from his eyes.

He imagines the wind in his hair,
her at his side.  Another time,
back when he actually had hair
and she was still his.

Now he rocks, waiting for Meals on Wheels.
Nothing like what Sara cooked.  Another time,
back when Sara was well and he
had his own teeth.

They sit.  Man and machine.
Best days behind them.
Waiting.
Now that Sara has passed on.

 

             Unsettled

I am unsettled like the ocean
in the wake of an approaching storm.
My insides are being churned and tossed about
like the white caps on waves.
Sea gulls move inland
like my friends, who do not understand my mood.
I am here alone; left to brave the storm
and pray destruction does not come.