The Orange Truck

The Orange Truck Jean-Marie Ruiz

Running out of the front door Onto the porch with the rest of the family Seeing just the back of a Puerto Rican 6 feet tall Mustache Jet-black, wavy hair. We have the same eyes That's all: Dark brown, with an Endless stare. He was walking fast toward a truck. Whose truck? Old and orange Hillbilly inside, One of dad's friends. I always hated orange.

Daddy don't go... Please don't go. A sudden throw Of a coffee mug on the sidewalk. "Get the hell out of here And never come back," My grandmother yelled. The mug didn't break. I went out to get it Must have brought it back in that day.

A slam of the door A roar of the truck And my father was gone. Not a personal good-bye. Not a single motion To tell me he loved me. No look back at the mug So violently thrown.

E... R...

Good-bye.

Dirt on the Road Chris Gemkow

He fell in love Just outside of his reach Where the Badlands meet the mountains of Montana. Somewhere along alternate route 95 He ponders this notion.

This notion That she'll be at the top of the mountain Waiting with the wind and a smile To throw his way, to say "Here it is, what you're looking for."

But can he bear to look Or act upon this discovery? Can he save her from being taken by the wind? The wind that hangs Over this tranquil body of water, Hoping to catch a drift from the nearest port To land a hearty vessel.

But will she be swept away by the sail of another, Before he is able to hoist his own? His own sail to catch the love That's floating by With the coming of the tide.

He looks in his rearview mirror And peers over his shoulder With hope of a chance encounter. But there is only an orange sign And dirt on the road. He is moving forward But has been left behind.