Truck stop poetry 2

Gift of vagrancy given by my truck driver father
with whom I traveled as a child-
he brushed my hair in truckstop restrooms
a week away from up-heaved home.
Philadelphia slums where children,
my age,
play in the spout of busted fire hydrants
days of heat that make the asphalt
ripple with mirages.
In a nighttime parking lot we sleep
in the bunks, watching a VHS
on the small television
until a policeman raps impolitely on the window
inquiring if we knew about
the smashed out windows of the bank
that had been robbed while we slept.

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