I walk out of the cab near dark,
my ukelele-banjo-guitar in a black sack
wrapped around me, stalking dusk
and a microbrew. I hate driving
Somedays a prison, some days
sanctuary. Somedays all I want
is a little more humanity in my white box,
more than the tinny radio yields.
My truck. Long days driving in
a refrigerator, a cock pit, a coffin:
music will open up the door.