Truck Stop 1997

By the side of the road
Red neon wills itself
Onto gravel and crabgrass.
Midnight Millers and Gypsies
Catch its ride, blinded
By its beauty.

Sweat is slow here,
Thick and dusty.
Rising, reflecting the moon
And falling on shirt collars.


Late night land of name tags,
Ball caps and
Poker machines.
NASCAR magazines and
Hank Williams Jr.
A State trooper sips coffee
From a white mug with a green
Real estate ad on it.

They are the moment
With the hissing of air brakes and the smell
Of burning diesel,
Lot lights wink off chrome trim,
As eighteen wheels hum on the interstate.

Cheap china calls
Into the morning,
A sleepy cook rings a bell,
Stained place mats and chipped Formica.
A salt shaker that’s always half full sits
Near a red eyed Canadian that stares
At dry eggs
While a bus boy swabs the floor.

Past a sign that reads
“Gents” is where they live.
Into the den of the late night poets.
Their words line the walls,
Supporting a cracked mirror and
A shoe shine machine that’s
Out of Order.