Julian's Truck

poor little Julian: your truck little and red

will not make it through the night. a big mean man

(whose wife has pancreatitis for the seventh time

and who never ever ever drinks) took her down

like David did Goliath—though this time

the giant won because his ego boosted with every sip

of the vodka he never ever ever drinks.

poor little Julian: your shiny new toy

was stolen by a bully with wild white hair

and a thick slurring toxin on his breath. he came

to crash into you and take out your hopes and dreams

with one false screech from worn tires

this man’s mother (or maybe

his wife) gave him too much candy in his lunchbox.

poor little Julian: your night has been shattered

like the taillights you claim were working

when that bad bad man couldn’t find the brake

and couldn’t find the hospital where his wife lay

(for the umpteenth time) in a bed waiting for her husband—

although we are curious because visiting hours

end at nine.

poor little Julian: you became our after-dinner

entertainment for the night. your disgruntled cursing

through my window hushed the crickets

and told the robins nesting in the trees

to stop their damn night songs because you

(my good sir) had something to say to the man

who made his van a home in the back of your truck.

poor little Julian: your night caved in

on you and all we could do was watch

from our second story window while the police

hauled the bad man who never ever ever drinks away

and you sat mourning the lose of your used truck’s

pristine rustic shine—it’s all gone now

but we had a good laugh from it all.