Pine Green Dump Trucks

"He was surprised at how lavish the small moment was."

Chris Bohjalian, The Buffalo Soldier

Two trucks, twinned in size, function & company,

approach each other in opposite lanes.

My car waiting to pull into traffic,

I gaze at the nearer driver

with undemanding optimism.



I know it will come,

barely visible head bob,

inconspicuous meeting of eyes,

modest mutal recognition.

Lesser than a wave,

larger than a wink,

lost if I waver.



It is my grandfather's hat brim dipping down,

driving tractor on paved public road

from one orchard to the next,

greeting farmers familiar from birth & before.



It's what motorcyclists & cops &

sometimes queer people give each other:

"I know you," it says.

"I've got your back," it says.

"We're not alone," it says.



It's what I wish I could say

to obvious adoptive families:

white parents, child of color.

"I know you."

"I've got your back."

"We're not alone."

They don't know why I offer a knowing smile.

My caucasian face matching my son's & my daughter's

close enough to disguise absent blood ties.



Back at the car, hands on steering wheel,

I am ready for nothing

& everything to pass

between these two captains

of pine green dump trucks.

Then, I see it:

unassuming nod

that floods me with lavish joy

at the small moments

of this human enterprise.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston