Why’d I Quit Trucking to Become a Writer

Trucking days… I’d get there when I’d get there, and they’d better be appreciative that I even came. At least that’s how it looks through the fog of time. Sleeping under the stars, in the desert, not giving a rat’s ass if anyone ever read my poems. I figured they’d find them blowing across the prairies after I got blown off an overpass by a tornado or something. Ah, nostalgic now for the deaths I didn’t die. God damn it, what a stupid dream to pursue, to be a writer. They say you never know until you try, but here I am — I know my homeland like the back of my hand just trying to stay between the mayo and the mustard, for what it’s worth. Not worth a damn thing to write about, so it seems. It’d’a been worth dying in a Freightliner, though. You gotta die somehow. Better not die trying, better to die living, no? Anyhow… here I am. Alive and trying… something… between the mayo and the mustard.

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