like his tank-top matched his shorts:
both utilitarian, determined by his mother.
A strip of dirt comprised their yard
between the tattered sidewalk
and the porch his father failed to fix
between his cans of lager.
As the tanker truck approached
that land became less interesting.
I was stuck behind them both
and witnessed the whole thing.
The boy was jolted, face lit up
and ran along the roadway
tugging downward with his fist
elbow bent, a perfect corner.
He was begging for that horn
but the truck driver denied him
and the kid's mom called him back
while his father killed a Coors.
The boy in red changed a shade
jogged, then walked, and stopped.
He threw his palm the trucker's way
tasting dust and not the Rockies.