Just a boy, his dog, and a pickup...truck

She didn't arrive, we sought her out. He on the other hand,
was begging for nourishment for his body and his broken soul.
He would have made a fine specimen riding shotgun
on the bench seat, tongue waving happily, taking in the breeze
through the smoker's window cracked at a 45 degree angle
cruising past Floore's Country Store and down Scenic Loop -
He would have, had he been able to harness the nerve to approach
a pickup truck, his heart broke the day he was dumped out of one
into our front lawn, though that scar healed, it was never forgotten,
and on the rare occasion I could coax him near a vehicle,
I never failed to have someone inquire, "Say, that's the best
lookin' border collie I've ever seen, would you sell him?" Coincidentally,
I rarely take the pickup out for a cruise without receiving a similar inquiry
into her market status. In either case, whether I reprimand that my dog is not
a saleable commodity, or suggest a ludicrous price for my pickup, the interrogator
always scoffs, as if I have offended them by replying to a subject they broached.

Then Ryan barks
in scornful indignation
from his window seat
as I engage the coil spring
clutch pedal and pull gently
on the long lever
to shift into second
and roll down the road
at eight miles a gallon.

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