The highwayman

Rolling thunder in the
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