The highwayman

afternoon sun,
on downhill run to the coast.
The diesel screams
eighteen-wheel blues,
as if t'were a sixty-foot ghost.
It highballs the roads
like a clipper of yore,
where cities are far distant ports.
The captain and driver
are one in the same,
their logs are of similiar sorts.
Rattling, roaring with the
downshifting groans,
a behemoth loaded with dreams.
It follows the lines
blinking yellow and white,
reflected by bright highway beams.
July 1998

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