In The Truck With Grandpa

Grandpa moved the last of the suitcases, then went
around to the bed of the truck to tie something
down. It was his shirt – I noticed when he got back
that all of the gray and half gray hairs on his neck
and shoulders went curling through the headrest,
threatening to tighten like table straps around
my fingers if I touched them. He seemed to
throw his head from side to side, like a horse
calming down. The night’s eye narrowed. Perhaps
we would be the last thing this night would see
before sleeping – a truck leaving, its driver’s soiled
shirt trailing off the bed, and what I saw then
as suitcases, a herd of trampled pigs left open
by the road

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