Truck

The essential difference among poultry, pottery, and poetry is that the first two get trucks.  Little white panel truck with a chicken on the side, or that half-cart, half-truck Saramago's potter drives in The Cave.

Once I bought a truck from Barbara Klar.  I was up to Riddell to work with her on a book (hers) in February, damn cold.  Her Datsun truck, an '81 or so, was parked for the winter in deep snow.  We had to haul it out with a tractor, which Barbara's partner drove.

Her Datsun was rusted out, like all Datsun trucks.  But it ran great.  A mechanic said, "Geez, you've kept this truck in good shape."  "Thank you," I said.

I drove it for three or four years.  My daughter Lucy, who was under 10 at the time, and Tom (about 12) climbed in and out of the front seat often, Lucy straddling the gear shift.

After a while it was time to buy an Oldsmobile.  I took possession of an '89 Delta 88 on Valentine's Day, 2001, and drove it to St. Pete's.  Wrote poems in there, motor running.