BB Grey–musings

The Road Swallowed Most of Him

Eighteen wheels
grind even the best down—
red-raw streaks
on black asphalt,
a loneliness
that claws for home
when home’s
just a ghost in the rearview.

Michael Smith,
ordinary as rust,
dreamed of more
than this rig could haul.
Kept the dragon
caged between the lines,
huffing, puffing,
no spark left—
his magic carpet
ragged, grounded,
ride over.

He whispered goodbye,
couldn’t face another mile.
An empty house,
bills stacked like tombstones,
trust long gone—
it took his wife with it.
Kids in better nests now,
while he rolled on,
stuck in the cab of yesterday.

So he aimed straight—
a curve he knew to swing wide—
left it all
spilled at the wayside.
Next of kin
could sort the wreckage.
For Mike?
Maybe it was finally alright,
clutching a cross
like a last grip on the wheel,
to fight on—or let go.