The woman’s maroon-streaked apron teases
The man’s eyes in the truck’s rearview mirror
While a table-saw sleeps in the yard with a bloody lip.
But the high-pitched wail fills the cab.
The boy’s hands look like a finger painting on the fridge.
Lost in clouds of peroxide, he holds
His finger, a theatrical prop; it bounces
With the rusty clunker’s gear shift
Like a red-faced caterpillar hoping to escape
The man’s sideway stares, catching
The boy’s tears in one glance
And the two-hour drive in the other
First Published in Aquila Review 2015, Volume 8
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