T. R. Poulson

573992

          —Confession of a UPS Driver

Bear Gulch Road, an asphalt sliver, winds
among redwoods whose branches chop, clutter
sunlight to me where needles fall to define

my paths, my work. My truck, 573992, butters
her turns and nimbles me. Beyond, the framed
Pacific glimmers pale among numbers:

Parcels. Stops. Production. 992 names
me strong in rivers of marine layer drunk
from salt. Fog bleeds and swirls in gray

flames. Wonder twists to me among trunks
as wide as roads. Pastures’ green secrets
unfold in wilder shades with her, my truck,

as mist conceals the deep in folds of wet
and gold shadows. They say tools maketh
the woman, and I can take the burning sunsets

of knots in flesh—with 992—can take
the punch of overtime. Nothing lasts.
Her design, phased out. Erased by handshakes

among men and women who’ve never asked
a vehicle to hold them safe where dark
slopes down. Her odometer says she’s past

her prime. If one repair bill ever arcs
over a thousand bucks? The graveyard, brown
with rust, awaits. I dread the damp, the dark

of Skyline without her. My turnarounds
unbuttered, clumsy. Any other wheels
will render the Pacific just a wound

of blue. The redwoods, just pillars. I reveal
her little bruises, one by one. A seal
glistens, wet. A bearing growls. She whines.

T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, supports her writing habit by delivering for UPS in Woodside, California. Her work has appeared in various publications, including Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, and Booth. She is currently seeking a publisher for her first manuscript, tentatively titled At Starvation Falls. Find her at www.trpoulson.com and on social media as @trpoulson.