^^^^^^^^^

The trucker is having the time of his fucking life.
His gasoline lunchbox, his liverwurst
prepared by a countess.
He is letting his angst balloon
into the radio frequencies.
He is luminously understanding
all the glad and sinister messages
are for him, but not for him alone.
Nevertheless, he is almost criminally
solitary, a stone carved heartily, left in its own
chiselled dust, he cries into a silver bullet
then seals it up in the glove compartment
with a cracked toy airplane
and the remnants of his marriage degree.

I wave to the trucker because I recognize
the strange stubborn miracle of his transport
but he only nods begrudgingly.  He is taking
a cargo of neon screws
a fleet of french fry ketchup plates
in flying saucer formation
and a crumpled pack
and the blah blab lah
goddamn windshield wipers
as a stunted language of mother--many wheels
passing the laundromat--begs her daughter
not to climb into the round and punctured mouth
of the open dryer, though it looks
bound to happen.