The Red Racer

It's eight o'clock; no time to waste,

The sun is in the sky.

The heat bears down on everyone,

They start work with a sigh.

Combines start and engines roar

Atop the golden hill.

Wheat trucks follow close behind

Just waiting for a fill.

Amongst the trucks one stands alone,

Red Racer is her name.

It isn't very strong or fast

And breakdowns are its game.

I wait inside the small wheat truck,

Not one of our farm's best.

Tina tries to start the truck,

Her patience put to test.

The engine splutters awful sounds,

A groan, a screech, a wail.

The truck starts and we move along

With dust leaving a trail.

As we venture up a hill

We start to decline quickly.

The breaks are on, I hold on tight

And Tina's face looks sickly.

Soon to follow, we both find

We have a broken heater.

The door is full of dents and dings,

The gas spills by the liter.

The windows don't keep out the dust,

The radio is busted.

The reddish pain is peeling off,

The stick shift is half rusted!

Passing people on the road

After trips of dumping wheat,

Our bodies covered with the chaff

And sticky from the heat.

We head out trucks back to our home,

Our egos start to droop,

A day of harvest is now done

Red Racer follows suit.

The day grows long, our tempers short.

Our nerves and patience shot.

The sun goes down, our windows up

And we don't feel so hot.

The tiredness comes creeping in

And I could use a bath.

After hours of doom and gloom,

Well, you can do the math.

The day is done and we head home,

I look at the Red Racer.

Despite her looks and mileage,

No way we would replace her.

I walk inside our living room

And plop down in a chair.

To my surprise I look and see

My dinner sitting there.

I sleep and dream of happy things,

Like money, gold and fame.

I wake to see the light of day,

Not feeling quite the same.

I get dressed fast and eat some food,

There is no time to waste.

I jog outside to hitch a ride

I hop right in with haste.

It's eight o'clock; no time to waste.

The sun is in the sky. The heat bears down on everyone,

They start work with a sigh.

Combines start and engines roar,

Atop a golden hill.

Wheat trucks follow close behind,

Just waiting for a fill.

Amongst the trucks one stands alone,

Red Racer is her name.

Even without speed or strength,

We prize her all the same.

Copyright c 2004 The Spokesman-Review
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