From Grace to Goshen
On Friday nights, when manic, my father cut
coupons and cleared shelf space in the barn—
rows of box fans, light bulbs, and flashlights.
He charted his course on maps, from Grace
to Goshen, south as far as Muncie.
His old pickup truck was gone by five.
Sometimes he’d drive a thousand miles in two days,
from KMart to KMart. He slept inside the cab,
then started again. The blue light specials
would save him hundreds. On Sunday, late,
he’d drive up slow, a haze in front of headlights,
the dust drummed up from the gravel road.
He sat in the truck, sometimes for hours,
before he’d start to unload, down by weekend’s close. 
Contributor’s notes
For the Record
Not Whiskey
Son
Sweethearts