The little red truck, its relentless

work. Memaw once saw it move low—
window cracked just enough.

Enough for the slow rhythm
too soft to parade itself—
a dented chariot by the old root cellar.
I want to hold them in my hand now.
Barnlight on broken glass. The field
blurred thick through the heat-haze fractured
even in my dreams:
a mechanical psalm.

Just the ghost-
rhythm of when the heart cracked open—
every interstate exit
a groan of brakes and the smell of diesel.

This is a cento made from lines of my previous LexPoMo 2025 poems.