& every grandpa’s truck is the truck of my dreams. Forest green or yellow thunder;

chromed out blue or rusty carmine. I love all the sun-dyed variations of red, really.

I love the squeaky door handles swinging open at the twin liquor store on the old

side of congress. By “old” I mean it hasn’t been gentrified yet. I want every grandpa

truck to stay owned by a grandpa & my grandpa to always have gap-toothed yellow

teeth. The silver caps shine brighter the longer you preserve them, I think. The trunk’s

dusty leaves—older than tech booms bringing a tampering white dream to all

thriving populous cities. I want Congress to never be called SoCo again. And it’ll never

be by all those truck-driving abuelo’s tipping their cowboy hats to me on Friday eves.

They are my realm of possibility. When I grow up I want to be all their leaky motors

& leather seats, combined. Tonight I’ll be sure to let the cranky grandpa in first. Maybe

we can link up after sip-shopping & yell at some clouds or I can listen to his audible

history of what Austin used to be. We’ll never be the tech utopia they want us to be.

Not while men can still grow up to mirror their cars, not while Texas lights gleam on

& grandpa’s glow despite their cracking paint jobs, effortlessly.