Two men carry a box of unassembled bed pieces
From the back of the delivery truck.
Slowly, this truck stretches its suspensions
Away from the concrete road,
Like a cross-country bus that hisses
Upon arriving at its first stop-over
Since departing the terminal.
This delivery truck rests.
A build-up of rust has taken over its belly,
Chrome has lost to grey, and grey to brown and black.
Under the hood, the vibrating shadow
Of what used to be a top-of-the-line 6-cylinder engine
Pumps gas, powers its metal-muscle limbs.
The very rumbling that gives it life
Builds on its decay, constantly.
They return with an empty box
And as they load themselves,
Slam the squeaky-hinged doors behind them.
For a second, the metal on metal contact
Smoke-screens the immediate 10-meter radius.
And then the next second, only silence.
And then this truck coughs itself awake
But fails to sustain a steady heartbeat.
On the second attempt, the clutch sticks,
The pistons take their places, on to the next.
This truck is happy to unload.