a truck and the czech man
the dim orange light from the dash filters towards the roof of the truck
in a twisting strand of undulating smoke... carried upwards by the cigarette butt
half snubbed in the ashtray.
Rectangles of yellow
ticking soundlessly past the left window
as the truck drives on through the night,
a tiny smoky cabin with its sole grim occupant hurtling across asphalt and into the silent waiting night.
he drives past as i watch and wonder.
An old czech man behind the wheel,
I think.
He speaks kindly in his harsh way as his eyes
finish his thought, and his thick fingers curl
around the wheel gently.
he is beautiful, a creature of callouses and stray hairs
all stories in my mind springing like accomplishments
from his corded forearm
or his stone knuckles weathered timeless.
he is like a savior to me—
giving me peace
as the yellow rectangles tick soundless past
and the czech man drives on
and I wonder.
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