Pick 'Em Up Truck

 

On the door

was the logo of my dad’s company:

Automotive Electric.

 

It was maroon,

and we could sit

four across in the cab,

even in our puffy winter coats

with faux fur-lined trim

and Moon Boots,

while sliding around

on the slush-filled

streets of Spokane.

 

In summer,

I’d lay canopied in the back

during long drives—

comics, coloring books, and Judy Blume’s spread out.

 

Once, on the way to the drive-in

I sat in back in a lawn chair

(it’s as redneck as it sounds)

and slid across the bed

when we nearly wrecked,

Mom fretting my injuries

through the connecting window,

Dad smoothing and “soothing” with a growl.

 

I wish I had it now,

to kick the tires

like my dad always did,

 

to pop a sleeping bag in the back

for the drive-in,

wearing my pajamas

like people do on airplanes now,

and to feel that Automotive Electric fly

just one more time.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Through the Windshield

 

things that glow in the dark

 

under the blacklight

they glow green

and grow still

 

sometimes they’re

tucked into a nook

like a lost doubloon

 

ready to sting like a curse

for one stolen

pieces of eight

 

sometimes they fall with a plump green thump

on the lawn burning white

in the moon’s light

 

sitting like plastic children’s rings

stuck into the green buttercream of supermarket

cupcakes near all hallows’ eve, harmless—

 

or like tonight, behind my eyes

while dreaming, a memory, a fog of gray-green

shadow moving scorpion-like,

 

not carrying enough venom

to kill,

but still—

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

dVerse mtb

Hush

Claude Monet The Studio Boat (1876).  Public Domain image.

 

Hush, the lantern is burning low;

the air is crisp and sweet

on this, our orchard, son.

 

In the cradle of the river,

before your leaves are changing palette,

before my winter comes—

 

remember these: my velvet whisper,

and your dreams of green,

when my floating here is done.

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics