Diesel Dreams

Diesel Dreams A poem by Alan J Winters He rides the ribboned interstate, a ghost in chrome and steel, Chasing dawn through diesel dreams, where silence makes him feel. The hum beneath his heavy boots, the wheel a worn-out friend, Each mile a whispered memory, each turn a story’s bend. A photo taped beside the dash — three kids and one old cat, A flag that flutters on the grille, proud as a cowboy’s hat. The coffee’s cold, the thermos dented, CB chatter fades, He’s stitched into the fabric of forgotten motorcades. From Benson’s frost to Tucson’s blaze, he hauls the weight of time, Through Minnesota’s winter hush and Carolina’s pine. The road’s a hymn of solitude, a chapel made of sky, Where headlights carve out prayers at night and semis learn to cry. He knows the names of truck stop cooks, the jukebox songs they play, The way the moonlight hits the hood at 3 AM each day. He’s missed the birthdays, missed the spring, but never missed a load, A poet in a freightliner, composing on the road. His heart still parked in Tennessee, though freight and fate roll on, He hums a tune of memory until the night is gone. And when he hits that final stretch, the sun begins to rise, A long-haul knight in diesel light, with stardust in his eyes.