Shoemaker's Elf at the Wheel
Like thread on a spindle, the landscape winds past my truck cab window,
unrolling over my shoulder,
crowding my brain with thanks:
thank you for skeleton trees in fall,
red sumac on wavy hills and the quicksand below
by the slick 401;
and in winter, the snow not quite hiding the corn stubble,
sliding off soundless from evergreen boughs to the ground
as I hiss past in salty spray…
A sideways glance
gives a freeze-frame view in a squint split second,
between checking mirrors and guages,
and the taillights ahead.
It is soon interrupted by factory walls,
the screeching of brakes,
crazed streets,
flying papers and clogged sewer grates,
the crackle of the CB,
green rusty Dumpsters spray-painted with insults;
then the grey squares of warehouse and loading bay,
towers of cartons and crates
and the shouting of men in plaid flannel shirts on forklifts…
In the city I notice my muscles, sore from sitting,
the buzz of my skin from the endless vibration of hands on the wheel
and feet on the pedals;
wish I could walk in the quiet,
wish this sky were spread out wider,
wish I had got more rest last night
and had time to see.
And inside the grocery stores,
blocking the aisles and checking their lists,
and reaching for bologna in rolled-up slices wrapped in waxed paper
for their kids at the deli
are people who don't think twice
or once,
as they swipe their cards,
about where their bread comes from.
But it's good,
it makes me feel more like magic,
like toys that move from their places at midnight
when no one is watching or listening;
like the shoemaker's elves.
Like thread on a spindle, the landscape winds past my truck cab window,
unrolling over my shoulder,
crowding my brain with thanks:
thank you for skeleton trees in fall,
red sumac on wavy hills and the quicksand below
by the slick 401;
and in winter, the snow not quite hiding the corn stubble,
sliding off soundless from evergreen boughs to the ground
as I hiss past in salty spray…
A sideways glance
gives a freeze-frame view in a squint split second,
between checking mirrors and guages,
and the taillights ahead.
It is soon interrupted by factory walls,
the screeching of brakes,
crazed streets,
flying papers and clogged sewer grates,
the crackle of the CB,
green rusty Dumpsters spray-painted with insults;
then the grey squares of warehouse and loading bay,
towers of cartons and crates
and the shouting of men in plaid flannel shirts on forklifts…
In the city I notice my muscles, sore from sitting,
the buzz of my skin from the endless vibration of hands on the wheel
and feet on the pedals;
wish I could walk in the quiet,
wish this sky were spread out wider,
wish I had got more rest last night
and had time to see.
And inside the grocery stores,
blocking the aisles and checking their lists,
and reaching for bologna in rolled-up slices wrapped in waxed paper
for their kids at the deli
are people who don't think twice
or once,
as they swipe their cards,
about where their bread comes from.
But it's good,
it makes me feel more like magic,
like toys that move from their places at midnight
when no one is watching or listening;
like the shoemaker's elves.