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Was slap out of coffee; looked like time to take a break.
‘Twas find a station soon Bud, or book it out that night.
Where two highways crossed, with all four corners occupied,Two gas-ups, a motel, and a diner, “Country Fried.”
Pulled in for some petrol, some hot java, and some eats.
Walked inside the diner, there found fourteen empty seats.
Food was good, coffee hot, my two eyes did so much better.
Noticed when she filled my cup, she nicely filled her sweater.
Three slab “Trucker Burger,” fries, and wide-awake to sip.
We chatted some, I paid my bill, and left a five-buck tip.
She bargain-filled my thermos – smiled, “for free, no tax.”
Two thirty-five a gal for gas, took eighteen plus – near max.
In less than forty minutes, I hit the road again.
Wound it up, settled back, and let four wheels just spin.
Each eighteen yards, a highway seam of sticky tarry goo,
Made the wheels sing a song, a “whump-ka-thump” tattoo.
Left the job three days ago after ten full weeks I’d toiled.
Twelve-hour days, seven days a week, my summer all but spoiled.
Q C stress-tests, two hard days – the system ran just fine.
We rolled-it out: four nights, six states, our site count: fifty-nine.
Looking at the highway sign, speed limit, sixty-five.
Odd you know, cause way out there, was only me alive.
Me, the road, odd tumbleweed, six cactus by my tally,
I sliced through starry night where two headlights cut an alley.
In eerie light to the west, “Three Sister’s Peaks” peaks should be.
But in that dark and spooky light just “Camel’s Hump” I’d see.
I had to pass through all of that, that lonely mountain range,
Before I made the state that’s home to me, the weird and strange.
I reckoned about sunrise, I’d be crossing the state line.
Surprised myself and did much better; that was simply fine.
Slept two days and missed five calls, four ladies and my boss.
Called two women back, they blew me off, ah, well, no loss.
One other call, then called the boss, told him a quick goodbye.
Got a stressless gig, good bennies, paid training on the fly.
I’ll fill my wheels with gas, one trunk, two satchels and then ride.
Gal who owns the place needs a cook; place called “Country Fried.”
© SP Wilcenski 2020