It was a bright red Dodge pickup,
only one year old,
and I was driving you home from a
roadside party you were too drunk
to fully remember.
At least that’s what you told me later
as we sat on the tailgate and looked
up at the stars.
Then you bought something new, something bigger;
a tan Ford with a mud-stained
cattle guard for extra protection.
You were the king of the road,
the safest thing traveling.
It was another night and another party
when you found that it wasn’t so safe.
In my daydreams
I knew I had driven you home
from that party, too,
and on sticky hot nights we still sat on the tailgate
of your red truck,
looking up at stars we would never reach,
drinking warm beer.