In America

I ride in the red Chevy truck of my grandfather,

Bumping along the smoky dirt roads of Sussex County.

I could spot that old truck for miles:

The red, white and blue “Support Our Troops” ribbon,

Sticks crooked next to the yellow Jersey plate.

Bruce Springsteen sings through the Sony radio,

The New Jersey Herald, in its green bag, sits gleaming on the dashboard.

His truck smells of sawdust from the old family business:

Grandpa and Dad build house trusses.

My iPhone, an icon of modern day, buzzes in the pocket of my Levi’s.

It is Grandma calling to tell Grandpa dinner will be ready in ten minutes:

Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans from the garden.

Grandpa pulls a U-ey and heads back up the hill.

We are greeted by my mother and father, my sister and brother,

All here for Sunday night dinner.

At last, Grandpa and I are home.

On Slate Hill.

In America.