Modern Trucking

The yard, brimming with growling trucks.

Cold was still gripping relentless,

holding the thick stench of diesel low

enough you could taste the air.

I nick a finger changing a tire, really it

was my left hand just below my thumb.

Abrasion close enough to say it was my thumb.

It’s not the first time in my line —there’s dozens

of scars on these hands. Blood—very little.

Eyes like a hawk seizing an opportunity,

I didn’t even see it coming—Soft hands

gently reached out and took mine. My palms,

are a dry basin, crack filled grime and callas.

She pulled a Kleenex hidden in a sleeve,

a little spit to dampen it, to clean the dried blood.

It felt a little familiar—a little like home.