10-4 Magazine / October 2026 59 Poetry in Motion: By Trevor Hardwick DAD'S BEST PEN I was only twelve years old, In nineteen eighty-nine. Dad was barely thirty- ve, And clearly in his prime. Happy, draggin’ reefer-wagons, Sea, to shining sea. Leased to Pirkle Freightlines, In a brand-new FLD. But this-here poem ain’t about, Some chicken-truck again. I’m about to melt your heart, With a simple ballpoint pen. Dad had bought a pack of pens, For paperwork and such. But ONE became his favorite pen, He loved it very much. One day, I was watching him, His mind was in a fog. Drawing lines and spinnin’ lies, While scribblin’ in his logs. He tossed his logbook(s) on the dash, And things suddenly got tense. He belted-out a cuss word, As his pen slipped down the vents. “There it goes! It’s gone for good!” “The best damn pen I’ve had!” I never really understood, Just why he got so mad. “I could try to reach it, With my little ngertips...” I o ered, in between the language, Launching from his lips. “Dad, it ain’t a puppy, It’s a pen you can’t get back. I think they sell those kinds of things, A hundred in a pack!” In some of my previous poems, I have mentioned my quest to nd one of my dad’s old Freightliners from the late 80s early 90s (see “Pirkle Plea” in the November 2020 issue). I’ve searched for that green FLD for over three decades, and I nally decided I would buy a similar truck and restore it to replicate dad’s original. In the process, I actually DID nd his truck, but it no longer rides the big roads in a blaze of chicken lights and chrome. It’s been converted to a manure spreader, and continues to work hard on a farm, for its current owner. Someday, I will work out a deal to acquire that old truck and bring it back into the family. But until that day comes, I’ll be happy with the one I’ve restored to resemble his. This poem relates to that whole subject, but in a slightly o -beat way. A little treasure I found while spending a few minutes sitting in his actual truck, after more than 30 years of searching. I won’t tell the whole story in this intro... I’ll let the poem tell the tale. After all, this particular poem, literally writes itself. He glared at me, disgusted, Saying, “That’s enough from you!” “You nd a pen that writes real good, You’d wanna keep it, too!” I could tell his anger, Wasn’t really aimed at me. The “best damn pen he ever had,” Was gone, eternally. More than thirty seven years, Have come and gone so quick. And I have not forgotten, About that little ballpoint BIC. Dad’s been gone since twenty-twelve, And I’ve searched high and low. To nd his big green FLD, I just wouldn’t let it go. Does it even still exist, Will I see it once again? And could that dashboard heater vent, Still harbor that old pen? I’ve got news to share with you, I’m sounding the alarm! Dad’s old truck is still alive, And working on a farm. I got a chance to see the truck, And climb inside, and sit. To relive some old memories, And reminisce a bit. I haven’t made a deal yet, To bring the shaker home. Good things come to those who wait, And the future’s yet unknown. But I DID retrieve one little piece, In memory of dad... A bent-up little ballpoint BIC, The best damn pen he ever had!
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