It's Your Truck Now, Child.
Legs crossed upon a dirty bent bench seat,
Watching potato bugs crawl around by my feet,
Tracing red tail lights and embracing the breeze;
"Eighty nine degrees" reads the scrolling marquee.
A half-hearted simper rests on my face;
It's quite quiet now in this chaotic place.
Your presence is lacking, but your impact remains -
You have flown on higher now, but left me here forever changed.