White lines down a black road,
Stitching miles through darkness,
The driver wipes crusty eyes.
Fixes them for a moment on a distant star,
A beacon through the windshield.
Beside it shoots another star,
Streaking to oblivion..
No time to stop,
The driver swigs the bitter brew,
Gone cold a hundred miles ago.
Low rumble of the truck,
Soft music on the radio,
Speak, sibilant, of sleep
That must be brushed away.
The dark sky pales,
Sunrise silhouettes a spire.
The driver smiles.
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