Or so says the rough-looking operator
in frayed dungarees who rumbles up
in his bright flashing truck
to ferry my disabled Subaru
down a dark river of highway.
In between explaining
how he’s securing my vehicle
to his flatbed, using a medley
of chains and winches, and lamenting
how his baby mama just up
and left him with all five kids,
some of whom aren’t even his,
he waxes poetic on the gig he knows
is waiting for him in the afterlife.
The way he sees it, in heaven
everyone has the car of their dreams;
could be a Lamborghini or a Mercedes-Benz.
Maybe even a Jeep Grand Wagoneer
with faux woodgrain paneling
and plush, country club interior,
like the kind I’ve aspired to
for decades. But with so much traffic
clogging the narrow arteries of paradise,
God must have no choice but to employ
a whole fleet of towtruck drivers
just to clear any fender-benders
and keep things from snarling,
outfitting them in shiny new GMCs
and gleaming reflective coveralls,
paying them time-and-a-half
on holidays. And this will be his
salvation, he says, to do the Lord’s work
in heaven, as he did on earth.