In the Back of Trucks at Easter

A few years back
when I was making my business
with too many books and broads
in dorms
a friend invited me
to his family’s home for Easter

Clint
was his name

a big heavy motherfucker
from the Midwest
- proper corn fed
football blocker
IOWA through and through

What I remember most
about my few days in his idyllic farmhouse
situated
just between the middle of nowhere and
a vast open space
is
sitting
on the back of a pick-up
beer in hand
with the new day sun swearing
deep into my eyes

It was an ‘authentic’ experience

We
supped
can after can
stood on a driveway
with mumbling men in caps

And for what seemed like years
we stared

we stared at a slow roasting smoker
charring
a baby pig

at some point around mid-morning
Clint and his pal
Durk
(who later became a New York state trooper)
decided we should commemorate
the Lord’s resurrection
by
firing guns
at
nothing

Being English
and from middle class suburbia
I played the role
of the hilarious novice

With a six-pack already bubbling
above my breakfast
I pulled the trigger
on a range of
rifles
including a WWII replica, hand pistols
and a 12 gauge shotgun

The 12 gauge really kicked
and I felt its hard butt
on my shoulder
for the best part of spring

on the way
to and from
our arms recreation
I travelled by truck

sat on the back
of a
pick-up
legs dangling like a stupid rag doll
with
a perpetual hard-on
and
a teenage haircut

It was well into dusk
before our bleary beer filled eyes
and damp mouths
got close
to that delicious
succulent
pork

This year
I found myself clinging
to a wire mesh
behind the driver’s seat
of a box van
somewhere
just outside Milan

There’s a million reasons
why
- which I won’t go into right now

but
it struck me
as my knees scraped the dusty floor and tools
most folks
scoff eggs,
get high on sofas
forget work for a few days
some
even make an appearance at church

I however
tend
to end up
on the back of trucks
balanced
somewhere between half a bit of danger
and a good story