I recline the seat, run the engine for heat.
A light orchestra plays Up Jumped Spring
… I wake from a dreamless sleep,
remember it’s December. Two degrees.
Just me and the big rigs ringing the lot,
a dozen growling Cerberi. Steam rises
from their pipes like breath. I imagine
the drivers in their cabs napping
on berths, the warm biers of fairy tales.
Three hours later, I arrive at a country hospital
covered with snow. Ask for the room number,
wait at the threshold. My father, shivering
beneath wafers of useless sheets. My father,
gasping like a cold truck that won’t turn over.
Barry Peters lives in Durham, North Carolina. Publications include Best New Poets, Grist, Image, RHINO, and The Southern Review.