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.

So here I am a freak. Undesirable to some confusing to others annoying to most. I think to much about why things are the way they are instead of accepting them as they are, I question to much, so I don't get to far, and in the chaos of the world where people try to pretend there is order I understand more then most, becuase I walk along the borders of life like a lonely ghost and see more then almost everyone I know.