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GENERATIONS

In front of me, lumbering down

a steep hill, an oil truck,

“ North Shore Fuel

R. Berger and Sons”

brake lights on, then off, then on—

he knows there’s a curve

where the full and heavy

truck will sway and lean

but he’s careful—it’s old Berger

wanting to get home to his sons. 

If they were driving they’d speed it up

to finish early, go fishing, rev up the big

inboard with the deep-throated sound,

head out to the mouth of the harbor

in time for the incoming tide.

They’d sit with a beer, watch

the sun lower itself into the sea

and talk over whether Buddy O’Reilly

was really screwing Patti Smith.

Old Berger is home now

sitting at the kitchen table

his cup of coffee getting cold

while he makes up

the schedule for tomorrow.