I can remember
when you danced from side to side,
Your seat and panels
Tuck-N-Rolled in Naugahyde.
One-half ton,
was your factory official load,
Down any potted street
or gravel laden road.
 
There was no rusted panels
when you were very new,
And your Oil-pressure Gage
was tested, tried and true,
Your engine started quick
and away we’d fly.
I washed you twice a year,
in June and July.
 
Years have passed,
oh pick-up truck of mine.
Yes, we weathered all,
for you’re a special kind;
Deluxe Trim, you were extra,
but worth the cost.
Now a rusting hulk,
but all is never lost.
 
So, I wipe off your seat
and slide behind the wheel
And as in a dream,
there is this feeling that I feel;
We’re dancing down some street,
in Summer, about noon
And the radio is blaring out
some soulful country tune.
 
Yes, old truck, I know
your rusted and caked in dirt,
But you know that I love you
more than my favorite shirt;
So, here you’ll stay with me
Until my days are done,
Then together we’ll take that drive
Into the setting sun.
 
D. Thurmond / JEF  —-  12-07-2015

(2015)

Some guy talking to his old hulk of a rusting pick-up truck.

Pick-up Truck, road, seats, dashboard, radio

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Charlotte B. Williams
over 3 years

The truck sounds like it has been a really good friend.
Delightful story. Nice poem.

D. Thurmond   aka  JEF (James Everett Falcon)
D. Thurmond aka JEF (James Everett Falcon)
over 3 years

Pick-up trucks are usually a guy thing, although they grow on the affections of some country ladies too.

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Charlotte B. Williams
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