I recall when I was 8 trying to sleep and being awoken by a boisterous belch and an on-again-off-again beep, followed by what sounded like a knife to a blimp. 

A sturdy symphony of rubber, steel, smoke, and grease--I know now it was a land freighter docking a whole store's-worth at 3 A.M. to the Fiesta behind the house.  It was the load men, women, and children from miles around would utilize to eat, drink, play, bathe, and heal.

Countless logistical miracles like these are non-existent without the modern-day cowboys wielding these massive mechanical marvels that maul concrete, test bridges, tighten backs, practice ballet in traffic, emit ghostly wheel wails at all the wee hours, give grimacing growls, and that muscle every kind of good to a name with prideful pulling power.

These men and women are the cells flowing through the U.S. map's veins.

Nothing about our lives could be dubbed "normal" without them. 

This is my ode to you, the trucker.

They should give you a less-damaging vessel--one more worthy of your own efficiency and of your willingness to risk your life in the name of punctuality, but I commend you for working with what you got. 

When I see you roaring or crawling down 35, I'm either overwhelmed by the awe I possess in response to the mass scale of your productivity or granting you the lane in gridlock out of respect for your roadway loyalty.   

With Passion,

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Published works: https://amzn.to/3gA4Dh3