Rolling a rock called hope,
Forever uphill.
Is this how you cope?
Or is it iron will?

You threw all your change,
In a wishing well.
But nothing changed
From what I can tell.

Promises, for those on your path,
Tragedies in the grapes of wrath.
Pain ripples in concentric rings.
Coins in a well called
“Hoping for better things”.


Island Grind

It occurs to me that Rehmer should have been immediately disqualified from truck driving based upon his eye glasses alone.  I’ve never seen lenses so thick.  Occasionally, he gives me a “What?!” when I’ve been caught trying to determine if there are actually eyeballs behind those things.

He’s obviously a mole and has no business operating this semi-truck.  My experience with him as the driver over these last few weeks bears this out.

If we tally it up, he’s backed into the loading dock three times.  He’s punched a hole in an aluminum container and he just backed into somebody’s hooptie out here on the island.

“You didn’t see anything just now, did you buddy?”

Sadly, I shake my head no.  Apparently, he didn’t see anything either.


Lunch is over now and Al is making out with his cigarette.  It’s chilly today, and the windows on this ancient International are only cracked slightly.  Smoke is in the cab and it’s rolling out the driver side window.  He’s grinding on the starter, and I notice there’s also smoke pouring from the hood.

“Hey Al, I think the truck is on fire!”

He looks at me, maybe makes eye contact (unsure), and says:

“No it’s not, that’s just my cigarette.”

“No, Al, I really think the truck is on fire!”

“Buddy, trust me, it’s not on fire.”

“Al?  I’ll see you later.”

Out I bail, on to the pavement, booking down the parkway to get to another supervisor who maybe has an extinguisher.

As I look back, I see poor Alan Rehm trying to put out an engine fire with his blue company jacket.