Raindrops crystallize a mass of dark, dulled ice that
Collects like a winter coat on the windshield of
The old, sky blue Chevy something that used to be
My dad’s and was my uncle’s before that. I can
See every year of this truck in the scratches and
Stains on the seats and the ash from a thousand old
Cigarettes. But I can’t see that now because it’s
Hidden deep in a cold cocoon that hides the rust
And the telephone pole dings and that one time my
Drunk cousin clipped a deer and broke off the side mirror
And the spare tire in the back that’s already
Flat. But it almost looks like it could be brand new.

I flick the ash off the tip of the cigarette
That I almost forgot about in the pitter
Patter of the flood from the sky. I don’t really
Smoke, it’s just an excuse to hold a flame in my
Frozen hands when I’m waiting for a bus because
The gasket’s blown or some **** that costs a thousand
Bucks or maybe four hundred but it’s all the same
When you don’t have it and when they say it doesn’t
Matter, it’s totaled anyway; but that truck is
The only home I thought we’d never leave. I pull
Down the gate despite the cold and the rain and haul
Myself up and kick my legs, pants soaking, thinking.

I remember, even though I shouldn’t, one night
Almost twenty years ago, we piled into
That truck and went out to the lake in the middle
Of the night and we covered the picnic tables
With thread-bare comforters and we lay back and watched
A comet streak across the sky as the sun came
Up. It glinted off the crystal windows brighter
Than the light off the lake, brighter than the mud and
Dust could tarnish, brighter than the years could ever
Fade. I lie back, my hair sticks to the tarp as my
Cigarette burns out. I can’t see the stars past the
Clouds, but I might, if I close my eyes, see the sun.