Where are all the trucking poets?

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Ran across this poem that puts a spotlight on our profession. I’ve often wondered why are there are so few good trucking poems. Anybody out there got anything to offer? This one at least hits the mark.

Near Election, Missouri by Steven Schreiner

There is so much to hear from the highway at dawn 
the trucker in his high cab 
illuminated by switches 
an image of him in speedometer glass 
a picture of his wife and one 
of his dog pasted on the ceiling above his sleeper 
iPhone and Facebook page and the wind 
on the hood of his Peterbilt 
and then the light rises over the world 
revealing weeds and granite 
outcropping and later down between hills 
on the rise above the river    the dynamite 
cut lines scarring the rock face 
and soon it’s time to stop for coffee and breakfast 
trundle over the rumble strips of the off-ramp 
parking lot bumps and buddy trucks 
the cavernous concussion of empty trailer 
or the thunderous lumber of a heavy load 
Inside at the bright treatment of the counter 
the glare glances off a sticky menu 
the clean counter-edge sparkle of mica 
What’s good     I’ll have that 
These moments when living is the same 
as driving   leading somewhere 
within reach 
Then the radio with its rush and riling 
talk    the propriety to lie 
the long day now returning 
with anger

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Harry Rudolfs has worked as a dishwasher, apprentice mechanic, editor, trucker, foreign correspondent and taxi driver. He's written hundreds of articles for North American and European journals and newspapers, including features for the Ottawa Citizen, Toronto Life and CBC radio.

With over 30 years experience in the trucking industry he's hauled cars, steel, lumber, chemicals, auto parts and general freight as well as B-trains. He holds an honours BA in creative writing and humanities, summa cum laude.

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  • Hey pretty baby don’t you know it ain’t my fault
    I love to hear the steel belts hummin’ on the asphalt
    Wake up in the middle of the night in a truck stop
    Stumble in the restaurant wonderin’ why I don’t stop

    Steve Earle – Guitar Town Lyrics

    “keep the big one between the ditches
    and the little one in your britches
    and don’t play with the witches
    you’ll bring mama the itches”

    anonymous in a bath room stall, Dorchester, Ont.