The Day I Drove a Pick-Up Truck in Houston

Katherine Hoerth

August 29, 2021

It’s not like me, but Alamo was out

of compact cars, sedans, and even coupes. 

We’ll give you this one for the same price, miss,

the agent says and offers me the keys.

The pickup truck awaits me like a steed 

in the lot. I climb into the cab.

I raise the seat to see above the dash. 

I scoot and stretch my legs to reach the pedals.

But oh, how easily the key slips in

the ignition. How the rumble feels

beneath my thighs. How small the whole world looks

from this high up. I hit the road and smirk.

A girl like me could lose herself in this: 

the roaring and the scent of gasoline,

the childhood memories it conjures up.

Suddenly, I’m in my father’s truck:

sitting shotgun as he gazes off

into the distance as a white cross dangles 

from the rearview mirror, guiding him

and countless other men with furrowed brows,

rough hands, and somber scowls on their faces

as they navigate the roads of life

from high above the road, the world beneath

their tires. How irresistible, this feeling,

becoming one with metal, muscle, fuel. 

The tank is full with privilege. I haul ass. 

On the highway, now, I take up space—

I merge and smaller cars swerve out my way

like I’m a beast. The whole world smells of me

and my exhaust. I punch it, blowing smoke

into the open sky that I believe 

the Lord created just for men like me.

Katherine Hoerth is the author of four poetry collections, including Goddess Wears Cowboy Boots, which won the Helen C. Smith Prize from the Texas Institute of Letters in 2015. She is an Assistant Professor of English at Lamar University and Editor-in-Chief of Lamar University Literary Press. Her next poetry collection, Borderland Mujeres, will be released by SFAU Press in 2021.