Good morning Springfield how are you? don’t you know me I’m your working son? I’m the poet who drives up from Litchfield and I’ll be heading home when my shift is done.
Well, here comes the sun. My shift is almost done. I’m tired as I can be without falling asleep. As I head home I hear good songs playing on my cellphone. I wish that they were louder because that music is usually better then what is playing on my radio.
I stop once or twice after a long work night to drop a pound of **** and keep driving home. Orange hazes paint the sky but my eyes are tired and dry and I can barely keep them open. So, I turn the AC up full blast as the early truckers speed on past. Drops of visine and shades to help me see as I stretch my right arm on the seat right next to me.
One last song before my exit, I hear Willie Nelson sing, “Good Morning America, I’m the Train they call New Orleans.” Then I hit repeat to hear the song again before my car come rolling in. Now, I am finally home my friend.