Big Time Truckin: True Trucking Stories
Dispatch 3: Truckers in Parking Lot: Jefferson, OH

by Kirk Gonnsen

a man retired
sits there filling his face
like a big ol' carp
at the bottom of a river
stone faced, chewing
staring out,
while the big-assed, barrell-chested
men carry out burger-bags
to their trucks, eat double-fisted,
steering with their knees

above them
the American flag does not fly
as high as the Shell oil sign,
or the Taco Bell tower
beckoning the drivers
from the row of rumbling rigs

full of stuff
for everyone
because everyone needs a little more
to do their thing,
far away from this Interstate
deep in the pockets
of America
far away from here, a place so unknown -
the Truckers argue over its name

guys
men, these guys still die young
smokers, grizzled faces, unshaven
jowls and thick necks
stiff jeans, cowboy boots, pinstripe dress-shirts
double-breasted pockets hold
lighters and writing pads
and one good pen
that they'd argue to their deaths,
is the best.
deep gravelly voices
that rattle the windows, they
walk with gaits
can raise their brow over
their glasses and look
around corners with their eyes

laugh heartily
over dirty jokes
and smile at each other when they see
women with big tits,
eat bad food
and drink jugs of coffee
listen to Waylon Jennings
fart often

are satisfied when they shit
and aren't afraid to
express it, sighing and
singing in the littered stalls
arguing about God and money
but mostly trucking

lot lizards,
construction that never ends
accidents that took men,
Bears (full grown and county mounties) and
the fear of getting caught in the coops

eastbound
they sound as if they're hunted
escaping the law
wives and the boss

these men
they are sons-of-bitches
cunts and liars
they are cowboys
on twenty-ton horses

they ride in Peace
the interstates memorized
every truckstop, rest area,
and factory from Detroit
to San Antonio
they ride their rigs
caterwauling on the CB
men on the road
bullshitting from ear to ear