The I-95

It was only coffee and cartons of cigarettes
that fueled my dad to his next haul.
My childhood memories are muddled,
saturated with visions I choose to remember;
trucking with him is one of them.
Driving deadly back roads
to avoid the weight scales,
the smell of his Copenhagen chew,
dashboard cleaner, the diesel smoke
rising from chrome stacks,
the pine scented air freshener-
these annoyances to others
were only calming to me.
Proudly sitting in the plush red passenger seat
I would outline the small dessert etching
he engraved himself on the window;
a howling coyote, a desolate wasteland,
an eclipsed moon hidden behind murky clouds.
It was those moments I was completely void
of all thoughts of home.
The paved road was the very thing
that silenced that anticipation of the becoming.
The road ahead merges with the semi’s hood;
a blurred vision of concrete and sky
become all to comforting.
I always felt I was one of them, a trucker.
Never putting out or giving in to nothing,
remaining a lonesome soul just to get by.
I longed for the empty diners
where you get a plastic monkey
hanging off the tip of your drink.
Where everyone you meet has baggage,
waiting to unload onto anyone who’ll listen.
Where, during a brief rest break,
you become best friends
with the man sitting beside you,
knowing every detail of his life
down to the final wishes in his will-
this all reminds yourself others exist.
I was too young to ever understand
where we were headed, or why.
All I knew was the I-95 was long,
and you always had to turn back home.