by Brent Keating
I thought up a poem about you coffee drinking, gear jamming, double clutching, highway hauling concrete cowboys and your 18 wheelers, using all the techno terms like “Jo dogs, twin screws, tandem axles, 13 speed hydra-drive, fifth wheels and drag axles” but decided to dump it all for a more personalized approach. After all…you are my father….so this is for you Dad.
He rose up in the morning, or sometimes late at night
and drove off in the distance, with children tucked in tight.
No matter what the season, winter, summer, spring or fall;
dedicated to his job he’d leave when’er the call.
With nights away from loved ones, he would have to be content
With lonely hours out on the road and truckstops as his friends.
Three million miles he’s driven, perhaps three million more.
Thirty five years of sweat and toil to get the goods to store.
Through cities, towns and unknown places he’s hauled all kinds of goods.
Through fog and sleet and winter storms, so they’d get there when they should.
How many people have you fed? How many have you clothed?
If not for you, no shoes for kids, or teddy bears to hold.
But life has not ended, just simply turned the page.
There’s still a lot of life to live and all the world’s a stage.