-the "WOP"-

               1958

               and during a cold winter morning

               the "WOP" drives his old “Brown”

               tractor trailer from a loading dock in Fall River

               toward a destination set deeply

               into the State of New Hampshire.

               I ride-along on the run.

               he’s hauling semi-perishables for a Company

               originating somewhere in North Carolina.

               the old “Brown” diesel rattles

               and smokes through its single stack.
               the cab is cold and noisy

               and in time, its speed concerns me.

               Interlude:

               Priest said: "the right hand of God is placed there
               to traverse the four destinations of the sign-of-the-cross".

               (the "Holy Ghost" occupies two of the four destinations)

               "O Christopher,
               carry me safely across the fast-track
               of sheetmetal, semi-perishables and spent gasoline"!

               a windblown snow slashes
               across the windshield like a thousand sabers.

               the observant WOP

               tells me: “don’t be afraid”

               and cranks-down the gears of the heavy-

               laden Brown through a treacherous slope.

               there’s a "sleeper" behind us which stinks.

               we’ll stop along the way, but

               everything’s ordered to travel on the quick-step

               when hauling semi-perishables into New Hampshire.

               

               all night long the great Brown

               runs its cargo northward into the State
               where the "Old Man of the Mountain" reigns high
               above the craggy landscape,–– onward! north by northwest,

               well beyond the northernmost borderline of Massachusetts.  

               time is not on my side.

               

               over the fast lane of the run, the WOP
               leans-in and swings his left arm high
               above his head like a Whirling Dervish

               indicating to oncoming truckers
               that the southbound lane ahead is free of cops.
               this is the unwritten poetry of the trucker on the open road.

               I long for sleep, but I won’t crawl into
               the sleeper's bed.

               the WOP’s eyes are heavy-lidded.
               onward, the Brown! onward!
               damn this madness!

               close enough now to see

               the great White Mountains peek

               through a deepening twilight.

               we’ll sleep at a roadside motel,

               two beds and a pretty good TV set

               but only after the shuttering Brown

               backs into the narrow space of a loading dock
               at sunup on the third day somewhere in the granite-
               headed State of New Hampshire.

               'twas "Bay 13" as best I remember.