Monster Truck (with new version!)

(New version following the original)

On Sundays after church we’d cross the street
and head to Albertson’s—but not before
the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to substantiate our needs.
Cheap plastic was the gold of youth; to Mom
we were but fountains of the stuff. (Which stuff?)
It always worked—content with “new!” we made
no fuss while she was looking for the non-
fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
To her loving deception we were blind
We knew no better, but who cared? I had
a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had
a white and blue robot (he said it could
shoot lasers from it’s eyes—I said my truck
could run him down). The time did not last quite
so long as we had feared. Ironically
my truck endured no longer; battle left
it more or less in ruins, plastic bones
across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash
received the mortal skeletons of joy
and Mother said, before we left, one arm
around my shoulder like a sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”

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Monster Truck

On Sundays after church we’d cross the street and head to Albertson’s,
but not before the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to fulfill our childhood needs; two active minds
routinely screamed “STIMULATE ME!” If not by running down the aisles,
then being boys (and making noise) would send the message. Mom preferred alternatives;
something not-quite-a-bribe, but close. Cheap plastic was the gold of youth;
to her we were but fountains of the stuff. It always worked—content with “new!”
we made no fuss while she was looking for
the non-fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
We thought nothing of her loving deception, and who cared?
I had a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had a white and blue robot.
(He said it could shoot lasers from its eyes—I said my truck could run him down).
The shopping did not last as long as we had feared.
My truck lasted no longer; battle left it more or less in ruins,
plastic bones across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash received the mortal skeletons of joy,
and Mother said, before we left, one arm around my shoulder like some sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”