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Cynth'ya Lewis cynthyaspeaks@gmail.com

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rest-less
by Cynth'ya Lewis cynthyaspeaks@gmail.com
Rated "R" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Cynth'ya Lewis cynthyaspeaks@gmail.com
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All he ever wanted was to OWN his OWN truck...


 

Mistah Mack’s seen a lot of places
on the wide open highway…

Been on rocky tops of Tennessee,
the ridges of blue Virginia
and the red zones of Dixieland

And he is lonely
he is lonely

He is oh. . .  so lonely….

Mistah Mack’s heard a lotta stories,
seen a lotta tears, mixed with sweat
and the blood of road rage slaughter’d

When one for the road lead to
the gates of hell, or if they were lucky
the gates of heaven.

He can’t get a decent place to park
He never ever has enough time..

Can’t eat
And can’t sleep…
All because of an air-brake lock’d & load’d
Inventory schedule sheet

And he is lonely
he is lonely

He is oh. . . so lonely….

Mistah Mack’s always yearnin’
for some time with the birds and the bees
and the voices of children who bear his surname
after all they are his reason why
too bad he can’t have his own truck,

Then he might get to see them when they
trot off to school in the morning, when they
sing off key in the annual holiday play,
when they say their prayers…at night


They are missed in the midst of his loneliness…

but his truck must roll down the asphalt highway
up the spiraling mountain range
down the dismal valley of death
to the stench of roadkill heat
to the icy pangs of wintry squall

And the rebel flags still wave

From the west to the east,
from the south to the north
18 wheels strong in a land
still weak from a history
that never should have happened,
where the pick up station with the
pick up bar picks up the prostitute
who is dragged to her death
when her tricks were no longer needed,
even in this century, it happens still,

but it’s never talked about…in a land
that should be yours, mine, our childrens’
(what’s left of it anyway). . .

And as Mistah Mack wishes the servers
in the Denny’s a good night…
hoping his food was not spat on,
hoping his burger wasn’t peed on
hoping his tires are not slash’d
and wonderin' if the money from the last run
will stretch at least one thousand more miles
after paying $400 for one tank of gas...

And in the land where pay is rock bottom low,
and time on the road is ridiculously high,
Mistah Mack, American Truck Driver
picks wipes drip of coffee from his lip,
picks up his bill…says “Got-DAMN!”
swears to not order so much,

YET...after paying Sue a 2 dollar tip for a $14 bill
he still has to worry about things like
“Where shall I park?”
“Where shall I eat?”
“When shall I ever be free?”

 

© 2010 cynth’ya lewis reed
all right’s reserv’d

 Truck Drive Fatigue...recognize it...and take it seriously.
 

 

 

Hope & Opportunity for the Trapped

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Reviewed by Li Smith
The images you paint with words are vivid and haunting. Awesome poem, Cynth'ya ... Thank you for sharing, Li
Reviewed by Patrick Granfors
Great tribute to our true road warriors. Patrick
Reviewed by Barbara Terry
Mistah Mack will never rest and will always roll down that black, asphalt ribbon we call a highway. Mistah Mack will deliver the goods to the company store and be on his way to yet another, and another, and he will never rest. Mistah Mack is the blood line of America and keeps her alive and well. Thank you so much for sharing Cynth'ya, this is a really great poem with lots and lots of visuals.

May the Lord Bless you, and those whom you love, and be with you always, and walk by your side. With love in my heart, joy to the world, peace on earth, & ((((((((((MANY WONDERFUL SISTERLY HUGGGGSSSS)))))))))), your little sister Barbie.
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