Sometimes I turn my head

Sometimes I turn my head

and I’m looking at

a trucker with big hands

and cracked skin

his eyes sometimes scare me.

My dad knows them,

they got beds in their cars

and eat at waffle house

3 am

scattered, covered, smothered

black coffee.

They are the lone flies that buzz,

but you don’t swat at them

you don’t mind really,

just don’t look to hard.

My dad says most of them got kids

they probably don’t see.

They give them a toy truck

for their third birthday.

Their steering wheels

have hills from their tight

grip and their seats

get cakes of dirt

that would roll under

your nails if you scratched it.

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