The Trucks at Night

I’m going home to sleep
but who knows where they’re headed.
Sleep could be Richmond or Pittsburgh,
and maybe there’s no sleep,
just uppers and the monotony
of Route 95.
Maybe there’s a truck stop or two
along the way
where they can park these roaring behemoths
and pass the dead of night
with fellow creatures,
taste the coffee,
see the trips they’ve made,
have still to make,
in the red of other truckers’ eyes.
I think I’ve got it bad
until I read of miners stuck in hell-holes,
chemical workers breathing cancer
on the job,
or see these weary road knights
rattling down the highway,
full tank of diesel,
eyes almost on empty.