To My Sister:
October 4th
Exactly {twenty-six years}* ago today,
We were on our merry way.
It was the daily route we took,
But since we were late, we quietly "snook."
Around the corner, then around the bend,
How did we know our luck was to end?
As we looked, we could barely see,
What was stopped beside the tree.
Suddenly we saw it, but was it too late?
The {garbage}* truck was to be our bait.
As you hit it the Mav shook with great might.
It gave us both a terrible fright.
“Stop!” he said he heard me yell,
“I could have lost my legs,” he’d tell.
Most of all what we’d hate,
Was that ¾ inch steel plate.
Rick and Jill came out to view,
Baby Ryan joined them, too.
You made me call Dad.
Boy, was he mad.
Quickly he came,
He acted the same.
Soon we had to go to school,
After you had cried a pool.
We were glad that day was over,
As it was the fourth of October.
In 1984 my sister and I were driving to Seminary (a before-school religious class) and she hit a garbage truck with her 1970's Maverick, lovingly called "the Mav." Every year for the past twenty-six years we call/email each other with this poem. I wrote it on the one-year anniversary, 1985. Each year with cry and howl with laughter. A few details have been changed {}* to protect the innocent.
Exactly {twenty-six years}* ago today,
We were on our merry way.
It was the daily route we took,
But since we were late, we quietly "snook."
Around the corner, then around the bend,
How did we know our luck was to end?
As we looked, we could barely see,
What was stopped beside the tree.
Suddenly we saw it, but was it too late?
The {garbage}* truck was to be our bait.
As you hit it the Mav shook with great might.
It gave us both a terrible fright.
“Stop!” he said he heard me yell,
“I could have lost my legs,” he’d tell.
Most of all what we’d hate,
Was that ¾ inch steel plate.
Rick and Jill came out to view,
Baby Ryan joined them, too.
You made me call Dad.
Boy, was he mad.
Quickly he came,
He acted the same.
Soon we had to go to school,
After you had cried a pool.
We were glad that day was over,
As it was the fourth of October.
In 1984 my sister and I were driving to Seminary (a before-school religious class) and she hit a garbage truck with her 1970's Maverick, lovingly called "the Mav." Every year for the past twenty-six years we call/email each other with this poem. I wrote it on the one-year anniversary, 1985. Each year with cry and howl with laughter. A few details have been changed {}* to protect the innocent.
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