I think this is some kind of attempt at a poem, I don't know. I just hope this doesn't suck.
A tall truck
Smelly, loud, but tolerable
Bound for the supply yard.
Loaded high with wood
Steel cages, skids sand windows
Tied down on the truck bed.
Rock music in a bouncing cab
With Chicken Soup for the Soul
And a heavy, warm coat.
No conversation.
A flat, muddy yard
With cement mixers, transport trucks,
And loaders.
Stuck in the cab
With no work boots
And wide eyes.
Feeling the truck rock
As the loaders take our load.
A friendly worker waves
As he takes a smoke.
Autumn leaves on autumn trees
Behind beautiful piles of dirt and grass
And building supplies all around.
See a fox (or a coyote)
As we leave the yard
Little things fascinate.
Driving home
See the road, but don't comprehend it
Thinking many thoughts
Am I an Aspie?
Is this poetry
Or just words?
One thing I know, though:
I will not grow up to be
A truck driver.
Got home
Whoops!
Forgot to visit our second yard.
On the road again
But not so long
A minute there, and one back.
Got to hop out of the truck
Read a list
Dad got the stuff.
Found twenty-eight ladybugs
On the inside of the door
But no turkeys, or deer.
Finally made it home
Peace, quiet, and the like
No, I don't want to go out for lunch.
I don't want to have my Dad's job
Too much driving
And working with my hands.
But I liked the trip.
YOU ARE READING
The Storm in My Head
RandomWatch out for wild Hynemans as I discuss whatever goes on inside my mind (and sometimes outside of my mind). What you'll see in here: - Opinions - Book Reviews - Unfinished Projects - Whatever shiny thing caught my attention on YouTube this morning ...
