He filled his closets with toy trucks
and snored like a flooded motor
when he dreamed of driving one off.
He raced his replicas through sleep,
past fence lines tied with leather belts
and down dirt roads knuckled with rocks
looking for his father to say:
I bought the toys you never did
and paid with the sweat of my brow.
He built walls from the white boxes
holding semi-trailers and trucks
like cardboard backbones to buttress
the walls crumbling around him.
Despite the barriers he raised,
I know now he was never here
and loved sleeping more than waking
where his trucks plowed through every wall
to shame a blind and dead father
who he never saw or forgave.