The Language of Trucks

Poem about my sixth grandson

Photo by Donald Wu on Unsplash

We are shy with one another
He is almost four, barely remembers me,
and knows bits of three tongues
or is it four?

I spoke his fifth language, trucks, and took him
a simple wooden one.
As I read, he approaches my bed
with his new treasure.

“Red,” he points out.
Then orange, yellow, blue.
Then “garage”… and a small one appears.
“It doesn’t fit” (the truck, of course).

He brings his Linus blanket:
“This is blue”.
He points to his eyes: “Blue”
and I show mine, say “Green.”
There is an item he cannot name: “What is this?”

Words and phrases slowly break the ice;
His daddy doesn’t know where he learned them.
Those brown curls disarm me.
Those tentative words,
The desire to be friends.

Language, however simple,
Crosses barriers.