I took my dad's big red truck
to get looked at by my mechanic uncle
in Hollywood.
The last time
I followed my dad driving it
he'd been in the hospital
a couple days.
He barely stayed
at night
in his lane on I95
and I got the expected
visions of a wrecked truck
at some point.
I got a sense 
of the muddy steering
while doing 75
the tires too big
or cheap.
It felt like I'd put on
a shoe too big for me.
The bench seat
wide open
my elbows far out to set on
the center console and door arm rest
me surely looking like 
a chicken about to flap out the window.
The driver door speaker did what it could
a functioning alcoholic
so I turned it down
drove in silence
listened for something broken.
When I got to my uncle's 
he put on the radio in his garage
and on 
the last song 
I heard my dad sing 
while sitting in my living room
an unlit cigar in his mouth
like a kid pretending to be an adult.
I can't decide
if it is a sweet
or bitter whisper
but I close my eyes and hold on
for just a second before
what the fucking my uncle
and as I drove home
I sang the two words
every so often
trying to hear 
my father in my head:
Hola Soledad.

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