Road was riding road back to home ~ sitting in the driver’s seat of his door-less old ’56 Chevy ex-milk truck painted purple and almost faded chipped paint gray. All rhythm ~ him bouncin’ along. Night time. One star in the sky ~ his star ~ twinkled fierce. Nobody really knew what his star looked like ~ only their own ~ if they were even that lucky.
“I’m alone,” he mumbled matter of factly ’round the burnt out cigar butt ‘tween his lips ~ and the truck chugged 50 miles an hour or so into the black night.
A little bitty caterpillar was wailing with all its hump pump wiggling body and mind blowing might across the highway ~ and Road saw it in his truck’s head lights. He swerved the truck over in order to miss the little critter ~ and almost hit a huge booming surplus truck mowing over the asphalt in the opposite direction.
The big son of an ox honked.
Road shrugged one shoulder, slowed the truck to a halt on the side of the highway, lit with a Sheriff of Nottingham department store match the crisp butt ‘tween his lips, and continued down the highway.
“I’m alone,” he said again, this time to his star, the highway, little Brother Caterpillar. “And I’m free.”
A few minutes later, as the black shrouded and swampy Louisiana/Texas border tumbled by, he added, “And I’m feeling strong.”
The truck gained speed ~ to 55 miles an hour.
(Copyright Clyde Collins 1974, 2010, 2017)