It was a spring day
in the middle of winter
and 12 was running smooth.
Just outside of a wide spot
in the road called Moscow,
I caught him in the mirror
and instinctively checked my speed.
I geared down, pulled over,
killed the motor and got my stuff ready,
when I noticed he hit his lights
in the only spot with enough shoulder
to fit my rig.
I watched him get out of his car.
Sixty, I guess. Yeah, he knows what he’s doing.
He climbed up on my saddle bag and told me
he’s been in my mirror for over four miles
and asked if I’m all right,
all the time sniffing for booze,
checking my hands, teeth; seeing how many years
I’ve been poppin’, Black Mollys.
I told him I was sorry, but the day was perfect
and I’d just written a love poem for my girl
(neglecting to tell him this ‘girl’ hardly knows I’m alive)
and asked if he’d like to hear it.
When I finished, I left the tears on my face
until he handed my stuff back and told me
to slow it down.
He never even ran my license.
Yeah, this guy knows his stuff.