From '1944': 6. (The Truck) Poem by Michael Salcman

From where they were hiding, my Father said
you could see the truck ride out in the morning,
men and shovels packed in its bed, the guards

having a smoke, the men shouldering their rakes and tools
as if going to work, as if volunteering.
It was a small town; people out walking could see them go.

In the afternoon, from where you were hiding
you could hear the shots, then nothing
until the truck returned, its belly rumbling back

for another meal, the guards having a smoke,
the tools laid down neatly in a stack
where the men once stood;

even from hiding, you could see people on the street
give the driver a wave, his tarp filthy with dirt.