convoy's of truck driving cowboy's

always pass me by
on the highway
with a tall mug of
steam swirled coffee,
an empty bottle of jack
on the passenger side floor,
the smell of pine in the air,
a girl with tussled hair
that flies up like a
pop goes the weasel game
wiping the side of her mouth
as the trucker fixes his
content gaze further on down
the road of our lives
laughing at the tiny throne
we sit on in our small
cars darting around
like substandard battery powered
bikes heading towards
our luke warm water
and simple sex lives.