Sat on a stool at a
greasy spoon counter,
being sized up by a
veteran big rig jockey
with road hard eyes.

After hearing my story
he nodded,
stuffed a forkful
of biscuits and gravy in,
and chewing, said:
“What they don’t tell ya at truck school,
driving’s just one kick in the head
after another.”

I nodded,
the way a rookie does.

He wasn’t wrong.

Now, fifteen years later,
I see it’s all like that,
truck driving or not:
one gritted teeth
******* puckered
sliding on black ice
toward the guardrail
moment after another.

And at nightfall,
formerly hiding in bottles,
shot glasses
and blackouts.

These days,
hiding in words,
like standing naked
on a not too busy
street corner.

A few people glance
as they walk by,
and I wave.