On the shoulder, they rest—
truck, car, van. And all afternoon,
as you drive past each of them,
you wonder why they’ve been
abandoned, if they had run out
of gas, had a tire blow out,
or if the engine, as personified
as any object, had just given up,
which is what your father said
that night, years ago, he came home
soaked in sweat, and upon taking off
his shirt, revealing slivers of darkness
leeched to his skin, damned his truck,
cursed it out, as if it were a son,
one who after spending weeks
practicing his swing and stance,
struck out, again and again. Yes,
for a moment you thought this
was about you, until, after what felt
like hours passed, you realized
the truck was a metaphor,
that this was about his past,
that when he knew his homeland
was running on fumes, and it
could no longer carry him
on any path, he, like every nomad
before him, had to walk away
from it, and hope that days later,
sun-scorched and less of himself,
he would cross that mythic line,
find a place that would open its doors,
welcome him home.