On the road

Peaceful night in Little America, Wyoming. I walk
to breakfast before dawn, wonder how long the trailer
of radioactive waste has been parked beside my truck

Rumble through south Chicago
searching for a rail yard. Notice a sign,
"Elmo's Tombstones
Tombstones Make While U Wait!
Before you go, call Elmo!"

In the Virginia tobacco country,
waitress looks at me funny when
I ask for the non-smoking section.

My truck's seat is 8 feet above
the road. High above most guardrails. I lean
a bit to the left on tall bridges as if
my body English is going to affect how
a 40 ton rig holds the road.

I kill time while my trailer is loaded
at a tannery in St. Jo. A sewer plant
next door. The wind stinks no matter
which way it's blowing.

In the sleeper cab reading a spy novel as evening
descends on the St. Louis stockyards. Plaintive moos
punctuate the night

Summer drought. Idaho burning. I
roll south out of Boise after dark. Lines
of fire lace the hills.

It really is a dark and stormy
night as I approach Des Moines.
THUD!
Something hits the windshield. Lightening
flash reveals a crow, wings spread, head lolling, pinned
to the glass by the wind. I jump
as high as my seatbelt will allow, damn near
run off the road. A second later, the crow
falls out of sight.

Bus-sized wooden crate stenciled with Cyrillic
letters rests on a flat-bed trailer at
the Junction City Sapp Brothers.

Off to my right, the Columbia River
sweeps down to the sea. Windsurfers
skip over waves like giant
dragonflies with bright nylon wings.

I leave I-94 and merge onto I-90
about 5:30 on a Friday evening. Every
danged car in Chicago is on the road
ahead of me. None of them are moving.

Forklifts shuttle back and forth, unload
55-gallon drums of industrial strength
hydrogen peroxide at a Green Bay slaughterhouse.
"What do you guys do with that stuff?"
" We bleach tripe."

Smokey swirl of dry snow dances
across a Montana highway. Gotta be
in Spokane tomorrow. I downshift
for the next hill, keep rolling.