by Gil Hoy
I never appropriately
Thanked you, Mr. Blue Man.
I was just a dumb kid
and didn’t know any better.
I was moving, one day after
turning eighteen. Signed up one
of those cheap orange, black and
White Rent–a–trucks, only
Twelve bucks a day.
My high school friends had helped to move
Me out of my parents’ house on that
crisp fall morning. They quickly
Loaded up my truck and then off
I went, moving into a
Bachelor studio less than
Twenty–five miles from home.
I remember that I was driving
Towards a cement underpass.
Speed limit was 55, and I was doing 60.
Wasn’t wearing my seat belt when
I adjusted the radio. And I missed
the black and yellow warning sign
Standing upright in the wet green grass
on the side of the road
That said that
My truck was too tall
To ever make it through.
Then came the flashing red and
Blue lights, the shrill shrieking siren. When
I pulled the truck over, ten feet before the
Underpass, I could see the fear in the police
Officer’s eyes and colorless face. His hands
Trembled, his cracking voice shook. He raised
His tone at me for a second, looked like
He had seen a ghost, put me on another
Route, told me to be careful.
I went by the underpass again
Yesterday and nothing’s really changed.
The underpass still has ten feet clearance.
My truck was twelve feet high.
When I look at my grown children
These days, and their little smiling children,
I often think of you,
Heroic Mr. Blue Man,
and what might have been.
I never appropriately
Thanked you, Mr. Blue Man.
I was just a dumb kid
and didn’t know any better.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing