There’s nothing romantic about driving trucks

There is nothing romantic about driving trucks. That’s a given,

although people who don’t drive them often assume that you’re up there

like some large and majestic flagship. A King of the Road sailing through the traffic

below.

    That song was about battlers who hitched trains from nowhere to nowhere,

so it still fits. Here’s a list of things you don’t do when you drive trucks for a living:

You don’t sightsee. You don’t cruise. You don’t take a road because it’s more scenic.

You don’t take your eyes off the four-wheel kamikazes (they don’t get the blame).

You take the same route, every day. The white lines become rails that slide under your bonnet.

The days loop through log books and delivery windows. The same idiots blocking your loading zone,

the same bosses and rozzers, servoes and cameras. The same numbers on the same clocks.

You’re either throwing your hands up in peak hour shitfights, or stuck in the same-same

night time Neverland (on a comatose road with a dead CB and no bars on your phone).

It’s nothing like your pleasant Sunday trips. You want to compare that to driving trucks?

Write a sprawling poem in free verse. Set your stopwatch and make the bastard rhyme. Then hammer it into a sonnet.