Welcome Aboard the Ship of Fools!

Well, looks like the holidays have passed, and it's a new year. Today found me in the school truck yard freezing my @$$ off and practicing for the state test. Not a lot else to do now, except set up a test date. I filled out applications for several companies, and got pre-hired by all of them(!). This means they will hire me pending a verification of all the stuff I put on my application, as well as a criminal and background check. As there's nothing to find there, (if there is, it's news to me) it looks like, pending passing the driving test, I'm good to go. All I need now is a flannel shirt and a John Deere hat. I managed to land a pre-hire for two of the companies I really wanted to work for, as well as one that I really could care less about. Funny thing about this industry- you apply for as many jobs as you can, whether you want them or not. In this case, definitely not. They gave the distinct impression that they don't trust the people they hire. Mostly in terms of the way they pay mileage, the equipment they don't give you, and their pay scale and policies. If you're hiring me to deliver half a million dollars in cargo safely and in its entirety, you really should put a little faith in me. But I did get my first choice in companies, and (fingers crossed) will get to run flatbed for them. There are a couple more applications in the works as well, but for now I need to get to work on passing the test- I now can parallel park a 53' truck on its blind (passenger) side. I can't alley dock if it means the firing squad, but that's why I'm in school. Wish me luck!
This poem is for Hugh Ogden, formerly a professor at Trinity College in Hartford, CT and a prodigious poet and writer, as well as a nice guy and inspiration to me. Sadly, he passed away on December 31 of last year. I hope you like it, and hope the good professor enjoys it too, wherever he may be.

For Hugh Ogden, Who Was From Maine


Nothing moving, a silent wood
where you walked, the
winter sky overhead keeps its
silent watch
The earth, the stones remember
under a burden of snow and frost

The road remembers
boot prints, steps through spring mud, sticking
to the mat at the back door

The peeling white paint of the grange hall boards-
they remember, the air ringing with guffaws and the hanging smell of
baked beans and bright red Jordan’s hot dogs

Wind-scoured steel of
highway bridges
stand, a
silent honor guard

Nothing moving, here among the
snow-bent pines
Overhead, a crow takes flight,
his call the promise of spring