I Want To Sit In The Middle

Grandpa has taken us again
In his primer gray truck
To hills away from roads

In the truck he sings
Always looking over at us
About lonely hobos

Silence comes at the part
Where grandpa tells us
He never knew his father

My brother and I want to cry
For grandpa and his hobo dad
The heater vent dries our eyes

Sometimes we drive for wood
Cords of apple orchards
In one foot sections

Sometimes we drive next to the Pacific
In search of blackberries
Finding thorns and blood drupelets

Today we drive on logging roads
For the elusive huckleberry
Enough for one pie or a batch of pancakes

Empty margarine tubs
Resonating plastic thumps
Of patiently picked berries

I see a picture of grandpa
Years later now
Standing in the woods

There he is in the brush
Margarine tub strapped to his tummy
Slightly, joyfully, off kilter

He looks surprised and sneaky
Smiling as always
As if daring death to come near him

“I dare you to come for me,
Because when you are done with me,
I will be done with you

And the berries will keep falling
Into my bucket
Enough for a thousand pies

Then I will lean against the back of my truck
In my favorite robe
And wave goodbye”