25 February 2019 – Up North Literary Journal
A shiny, black metal casing,
with shadowed grey innards
enclosed us.
Crushable black spots
from an unknown cigarette
and a radio flashed, shuffling through neon colors,
while country radio filled
our eyes and ears.
The windows were rolled down,
and the AC was turned off,
despite the humidity.
We were driving for a ninety-nine cent bolt.
A 1964 red, steel hulled Crestliner,
14 feet of my brother’s work,
and I was his helper.
Varnish filled my hands,
he was a blue mess.
It always needed a screw,
a bolt, lights, seats.
It needs a gas tank to make us go.
Our voices were louder
than all the engines on the highway.
We didn’t care who heard us,
our bad singing was our shout.
We focused on now.
A text from our parents
has us rushing to buy fast food,
and grabbing our dog.
As we head to a tan rock river bed.
A 1992 Harbor Master,
made for the Mississippi.
48 feet of old work,
We shaped her body,
cleaned her skin,
and we fed her too.