Demon Lift Poem by Donald Chance

The truck bed stacked with long curved things—
scythes, as I recall.
Not real important,
I only wanted off my feet.
Conversation thin,
the driver's grin carved tight,
never quite touching his eyes.
The smell—
rot and iron,
like spoiled meat mixed with rust—
dragged me back to dorm rooms
where something always seemed to die.
I said, any spot will do,
no need to go out of your way.
But he pressed harder on the gas,
speed swelling at every curve,
the wheel jerking like a beast
barely chained.
These old trucks—
built solid once,
but this one rattled
like loose bones in a coffin.
Even the bolts seemed to scream.
Then—sudden stop.
A silence thick as smoke.
Maybe I said the wrong thing.
Oh… okay. This deserted corner is fine.
I forced thanks through my teeth,
promised maybe we'd meet again—
though not too soon.
He—or it—roared off in a blaze,
headlights cutting red in the dark.
I stood,
sweat cold on my neck,
alone but grinning—
damn glad to walk
the next six miles home.