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.
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