One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I count the divider lines as they disappear under the truck.
The hood of our big rig eating them up like some,
insatiable beast.
"You and me" he says, "We're the last real cowboys."
He's right.
We're the last real vestige of the American West.
The thousand dead bugs and cracked windshield tell the stories of
our cannon ball runs.
Littered floors and bloodshot eyes have replaced our calendars.
Local bartenders have replaced our therapists.
And the 8-track gives us hope with a steady beat.
**** John Wayne!" he screams as he snorts a line and blows past the
weigh station.
This has been going on for three hours now, and I'm strangely comfortable.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I count the divider lines as they disappear under the truck.
The hood of our big rig eating them up like some,
insatiable beast.
"You and me" he says, "We're the last real cowboys."
He's right.
We're the last real vestige of the American West.
The thousand dead bugs and cracked windshield tell the stories of
our cannon ball runs.
Littered floors and bloodshot eyes have replaced our calendars.
Local bartenders have replaced our therapists.
And the 8-track gives us hope with a steady beat.
**** John Wayne!" he screams as he snorts a line and blows past the
weigh station.
This has been going on for three hours now, and I'm strangely comfortable.
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