What can YOU say in six sentences?
My friend stares at his oil gauge as if the engine’s arteries are clogged, and we wait until the needle rises before we move. In rural Nebraska, where a man’s measure is judged by tallow and bushel, vehicles are merely means to an end -- better a mule than a show horse -- and they aren’t replaced until they’re beyond resuscitation.
When finally pronounced dead, old trucks are simply parked and left to the ragweed and to grandchildren unborn.
The grass in the headlights’ twin beams, white with a heavy frost and bowed like slept-on hair, promises a cold day away from the Chevrolet’s contrary heater. Later, with my back to a brisk north wind, I open the journal across my right knee and ponder what not to write on the fresh page.
Maybe I’ll not mention my suspicion that Jimmy Hoffa’s body is inside one of the many rusty mausoleums I pass daily on my way to hunt words.