Rusty Red

I was eleven when I could drive

I had been raised on this milking farm alongside my strong mother
my hard working father
my elder brothers.

It was summer's time when I sat
for the first time
on the rusted red truck's driver seat.

I was a farming boy
who could drive a car
years before the children in school.

I was frightened
I was scared
but my father instructed me
quiet so well.

"Check the mirrors, Henry." he'd say
"Release the clutch, and step lightly on the gas petal."

I'd reach my short chicken legs to the gas
and with my boot's toe
pressed forward.

The truck moved forward a good six feet
and I, a farmer's son, squealed in delight.

I rode that truck across the vast corn feilds
I drove it when I had earned my license
and I kept it in my backyard
so that my son and daughters
would enjoy the company
of Rusty Red