His Hand

I see a forest green Kenworth in the oncoming lane,

going too fast.

A load of logs

stacked too high.

Then his wide, calloused hand reaches out over the top of the steering wheel,

fingers spread wide.

A trucker’s wave.

Me on my way to the office.

Dad on his daily routine:

         load on the mountain

                     drive into town

                                 dump in the log pond

                                             repeat two times.

 His lunch bucket on the seat beside him, red thermos of black coffee nestled in the lid,

barely staying warm.

I blow him a kiss as we pass.

He’s gone now but those big trucks still run.

Those drivers still drive.

Those logs still get loaded and hauled and dumped.

And I still look for that big hand.

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First Place in Poetry, EPIC Writing Contest 2017