A Ballad of a Female Truck-driver

It’s independence in a way,
The highway. The wind.
License plate’s tell stories
Of drivers -where they’ve been,
And she sees it all.
She feels it all.
Her grip incites a fear
Produced by knowledge to the rest;
One motion, one thought
Could rise above the rest
But to that thought she screams back:
“No.”
Before her finger’s seen,
Her mother might’ve hoped
She would have worn a ring
And leave the man back home.
Life now demands no anchor,
She finds them as she goes.
Her feet, sympathized by her hands,
Shared the premature hope
Of being fit for slippers,
Fit for dancing, rather,
Than the tireless duty of being a mistress for the road.
Born not a nimble creature,
She found no use for rings
Or ballet slippers. Her life was not her things.
She took with her what she needed
And wanted -all the same.
But nothing held her back -
No anchor knew her name.