Driving hard, ropes straining,
bolts burning in the blue night,
overloaded with a philosophical
point of view;
hoping to deflect, with luck,
the high beam of the romantic
with the aesthetic;
looking to park
(in a tiny heart space about as big
as a truck’s sleeping berth)
the religious aspect;
hazed but steering by
the white line of the soul;
when everything suddenly halts.
A voice in the dark by the truck stop shouts
in a grey smell of brakes,
“It’s a peck and a bushel of shit.
There’s nothing out there that
You haven’t heard about — you’re stuck;
The music’s good, but
no-where new to go.”
Here we are, hungry, wary animals, dazed
by road signs, strung out by the road.
12 December 1994
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