custom job

national poetry writing month 2025, day 5

we sat there
near the monument
at the park you like more than i do

a large GMC pickup truck drives by
though I do not know which type—
i do not know my pickup trucks.

the truck maroon,
the tires huge,
and purple lights near the wheels,

you say to me, “custom job”.

the truck blasting country music
(which is, admittedly, a bit too cliché for our tastes),
the bass heavy,
louder than we thought possible—
this seems to confirm your hypothesis that this is in fact a custom job.

“i didn’t know country music had bass like that,” i said.

“it makes me want to outlaw country music,” you replied.

i chuckled, agreeing, though feeling guilty for that
as i’m not one to yuck someone’s yum
(or whatever the saying is).