On I-57 lived a band of truckers, By the blade of the wind on a chrome-plated grill, Against the bone of the chassis, steady and still. They follow the road through smoke and snow, With the dashboard light as the only glow. Kings of the concrete, ghosts of old days, Oh, truckers on I-57, I-57.
No oath to a king, but a vow to the load, To the hum of the tires on a midnight road. With coffee for blood and the dashboard glowing white, Cutting a path through the heart of the night.
From the south to the north, The engine’s deep rhythm roars, Locked to the wheel and the miles they have known, Bound to the asphalt, by blade and by bone. Blade and bone.
Some are courteous, kings in coats of chrome, Who blink their lights to guide you home. A brief amber flash in falling snow, That says, Go on. You’re clear. You go.
Some are naughty, scrappy, restless, Guards the lane from little rabbits. You pull to pass, you feel the rise, The mountain stirs, the engine replies.
I’m not the slow one, little chum. I could leave you in a cloud of grit, If I chose to give this horse its bit. I have the power, I have the size, To take the road before your eyes. But I stay back, I mind the lines, And let you think the win is thine.
He lets you slip by, inch by inch, A teasing giant in a pinch.
Let him have the lane, let him have the road, I’ll move to the next lane, where the wind runs free. Oh, Truckers on I-57, on I-57
II
One day in mid-December, The snow came down, a wall of white, Swallowing the day, erasing every light. No road ahead, no shoulder could be seen, No trees to mark where we had been. No house to break the muffled sound, Just frozen air and blank ground.
Miles and miles of flat and ghostly gray, Where sense of distance slips away. The wind brought blizzards across the plain, Snow not falling, but driven like rain. The gusts swept low, A heavy blanket, thick and stifles. I could not tell where the roads, where the sky. A long way to go on my trip home, Emptiness swallowed my eyes and then my soul.
Then a red light shone in front, Blinking softly to give me a hello. I carefully followed, kept my space, And slowly saw what took its place:
A line of vehicles, every taillight red, Silently shaping a train on the road. One by one we joined the chain, A slow procession through the whitened plains.
And when the road curved like a spine of bone, The leader of the line was shown, That once-feared truck with heavy freight, Breaking the ice, cutting the fate. He carved the track, he held it true, With all of us pulled safely through.
A fearless guide through haze and snow, Leading a small armada forward slow. He was the pilot, we the tail, A fragile fleet in a winter gale. We passed the wreck, we passed the fear, Thank God the titan led us clear.
Later that night, the radio said, Near the city of Mattoon, several giants crashed and bled. A jackknifed mess on the frozen glass of I-57, I whispered prayers for those who didn’t pass. Red lights fading, Into the white.
