Lone

There’s something so somber about open roads and early mornings.
Your only friends are the cars that speed past you
And the shining reflectors stuck to the pavement.
The same songs play on the radio,
The lights in the distance never get any closer.

“It’s not a good life, the life of a trucker,” they say.
But life is life, and their way is the highway, the long way, the hard way.
Who are we to say how they must live?
I can’t.
No one can.