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.

It's 2 a.m.
Time to go
Get on the road again
Shower, shave
and grab some joe
I am a workin' man

Each day
my routine
one...two...three
it is
the thing
that makes me me

A working man,
Hard workin' man
I do what must be done
I'm up each day
while it's still dark
And I'm not finished till the sun....

goes down
driving cross the land
I'm up at two
In bed by ten
I am a workin' man

I never
seem to
find the things
To love
What working
hard may bring

My truck
all loaded
Time to hit the road
the alarm
goes off
inside my head

I spend
most of
my life alone
it's me
my truck
and the road

it's 2 a.m.
it's time to go
I am a working ma
shower, shave
that cup of joe
workin' makes me who I am

I don't know where, if it will end.
Refuse to voice or recommend.
To treat what ails us is pretend.
Slips through fingers apprehend.

To help more than to hurt,
reflexive sunny disposition
which can cradle sallow sleeping stoic pride.
Distinguishing the dirt,
collective run beside conviction;
acting ladle heavy, heaping, terrified.
 
Leave things better than you found them
Received our debtors stand; surround them.

I wonder if to soothe what ail,
under apprehension prevail.
Therein lies each us, our grail -
our demons sinking in each nail.