Nescafe

I stood at the edge of the pavement camel like.
The birds were unusually active and traffic was sparse.
I pretty well much had my thumb out and coffee
and my Marks-A-Lot and a shit eaten grin.
The markers are kind of toxic and yet I scribble
on guardrails stuff about having to have been there once.
Big trucks generally do not stop for us these days.
This one did I piled in when he got stopped.
The guy driving the truck driver, over here from Romania.
He appeared healthy and young and spoke very little English.
The cab of the truck was enormous and well lit
tho you have to consider most of it windshield.
We did alright communication wise I suppose, I mostly nodded.
He steered the truck crossed himself a lot and prayed.
It wasn’t so much a real prayer as a mutter.
But I imagine the point was gotten wherever it went.
The truck driver asks what for I be out here?
I don’t know, I told him I was comfortable here.
He said something about to go back to, from here.
It is all quite linear to me I told him.
Linear didn’t register so I just said Boston at least.
The truck driver from Romania kept crossing himself and steering.
I watched Nebraska and the corn ratchet ditch wise by.
At mile marker 420 the truck driver pulled off.
He looked at me and told me to go back.
He tossed me a clean pair of socks or two.
So anyway it was a crummy place to get dropped.
I didn’t have much choice but to go back west.
I figure shoot I’ll just go back to The J.
Start fresh in the morning, when this guy walks up.
He was short with a big belly button down shirt.
I think it was 103 degrees and humid no breeze.
The guy was sweating and appeared perplexed or agitated somewhat.
I offered him some water and a chunk of guard-rail.
He told me in broken English he was from Romania.

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