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
that truck.
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:
perhaps tonight
music will open up the door.
Jaw has dropped. (Did you hear the thud?)
ReplyDeleteFirst thought: "Did I post that?" And later:
how universal and unowned that voice.
I feel strummed like a guitar.