Poetry : Truck Stop

Written In third person ... as viewed from a haughty, Corporate world dwelling, upper class gent :

IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING -
THE HAIRY ARMS OF
SOME HILL-BILLY TRUCK DRIVER,
HOGGING WHAT LITTLE SPACE
I, HAVE...
IN THE SMOKE FILLED,CRAMPED LIKE SARDINES,
ROOM.

AND THEN
THE ROTTEN STENCH...
OF GREASY STEAKS,
OF GREASY FRIES,
AND OF GREASY MEN WHO HAVEN'T BATHED...
HELL,
probably in years.

I SEE THESE GREASY TRASH.
I KNOW THEY ARE MEN...
HIDING BEHIND THOSE SWEATY EXTERIORS
AND THE "BEER GUTS",
THE SAGGING JEANS
EXPOSING THEIR CRACKS.

EVEN BEHIND THE TOOTHLESS GRIN
OF THAT
"SEX-CRAZED BIGOT"
WITH A TOOTHPICK...

He may be sick...
BUT I, GUESS
HE still is a man.

---Amber ©All rights Reserved. Jan. 4, 1997

ESBN 15680-060223-739370-86