Since starting truck driving with you, the people close to me that died:

My mother. Florida, a jacket of humidity. Sitting side by side on lawn chairs in front of the porch. A half spoon of sugar in our tea.

My father's sister, Aunt Betty. Stockings rolled down from the top, bright red lipstick and eyes so blue. I remember I forgot the sparkle in my father's. Hush puppies in New Orleans.

My uncle Dick in Vermont. Vermont native, no where better than Vermont. Hair lanky brown hair burshing over his ears. Every night sitting at the lip of the garage smoking a cigar.

My brother-in-law, Tom Osowski. Tatoos and shorts in winter, sitting at the glass table in Cape Cod, smoking a cigarette and feeding Tip peanut butter pretzels.

My friend, Molly's partner Ralph. Towards the end he really didn't like me. Even the pancakes I made were bad. Stopping by in the truck in Arizona and Colorado. Ralph still liked Tony.

My best friend, Garrett Whatley. The last time I saw him, so strung out, I left and spent five days in Chaco Canyon in a rental car without a sleeping bag. Garrett Whatley, a voice on the phone passing through Albuquerque.

Stare out the windsheild of the truck. You see a long ways off. You hurtle through the present. Yesterday is hard to fasten down. Yesterday breaks up, water under the bridge, miles on the Interstate. Tomorrow is new collection of mile markers. Inside the truck everything is close against your eyes. There can be only partial glimpses. Coffee is set up for the morning. The coffee grinder, the beans, the coffee pot. Tony takes his clothes off and folds them on the driver's seat. Tony is so close I can choose to watch his shoulders, his back, as he stoops to kiss the dogs on the beds that take all the floor space. Only when he stands up can I see the smoothness of his thighs, the softness of age and late night belly. When he lies down, wirey and thin, flat against me, there is no extra room. I can not see him at all.