can i interest you in some firewood?

a pickup truck

from Sperryville used

to come

by each winter selling firewood.

they'd knock

at your door

in their overalls

and beards.

the smell of whiskey

on their breath,

and crumbs from

the crumb cakes that

their wives made

for them

for the long trip.

i tell them that i don't have

a fireplace,

and probably won't

have one

anytime soon.

to which they reply,

thank

you, and go on to the 

next door.