Trucker

Trucker

Columbus, winged red C emblazoning
cab and shirt sleeve, glances out.

Descending, pinch buffing off a fender speck, strolling rearward past his flatbed 
to its white caboose, sliding up, settling in there,

ruffling gears, dials, knobs, pedals, levers,
he unhitches, crisp as NASA, checks, and pulls clear.

Then, dropped from both haunches of frisking caboose,
prehistoric claws loll in tandem, fingering; eyeing.

They rise, nodding over flatbed’s freight, mince, pivot, yaw, squeeze, snatch.  Hoisted, bobbing, 
blond, a stack of shingles weighs mid-sky until, positioned, 

breezing down onto Maria’s yard 
it plumps: 

hotcakes.
Pushed back Yankees cap — glory.