Dad’s carpet company terminal job brought us to Alabama.
I was the child who drove a Green Machine up a steep ramp
navigating among carpets in enormous rolls
empty at the center until staved by a forklift
I drove my Green Machine up the terminal’s steep ramp
among carpets meant to be unfurled, stapled,
rolls empty at the center until staved by a forklift
Semis headed out, long drives to elsewhere
among carpets meant to be unfurled, stapled,
carpets not magic, held down by everyone’s sofas
Semis headed out, long drives to elsewhere
covering up the nation’s uneven floors
Carpets do not magically appear under everyone’s sofas
It’s a long haul. Floors get dirtied by shoes and paws
But it covers the nation’s uneven foundation.
My dad worked at the terminal until he didn’t
Flooring darkens, trampled by feet and paws
crumbs dander and dead skin seeps in
My terminal dad worked there until they fired him.
Contaminated, he rolled coast-to-coast like a ghost.
Dab, don’t scrub at the crumbs, dander and dead skin
that brought us to Alabama, that carpet company terminal job
that left Dad contaminated, rolling coast-to-coast like a ghost,
no longer navigating among carpets in enormous rolls
Kimberly L. Wright’s poetry is upcoming in San Antonio Review and has most recently appeared in The Comstock Review, The Black Fork Review, Panoply, Poydras Review and Eunoia Review. Her first collection of poetry, Not Pictured, was published by Finishing Line Press in March 2020. She graduated from the University of South Alabama in 1997 and has worked as a journalist for 25 years. She lives in Woodstock, Georgia with her teenage son, dog and cat.