Driver

The poor man that drives the rough and tough lorry, 
Sturdy and large he remains cool on the wheel of the heartless-engine.
His black t-shirt describes his full neck, chest, and grip over the steering,
His fleeting-hawk look is cool and powerful,
He flings the ends of his towel away from his eyes and forehead,
The sunlight drops on his hard curly hair and moustache,
Warms his rugged body and sturdy limbs.

He is unconcerned about life wherever driving,
To the rear as well as frontward sluing,
To forte to the side and junior winding, not a self or aim lost,
The lorry that flusters the burden and fetter or stops in the thriving shadow,
What is that you communicate in your deep, tiring eyes?
It appears too much more than all the books I have studied in my existence.
My crush jolts the unnerved and untiring trip on my far and daylong roam,
The driver and the lorry move together, gradually cover the distance.

I salute in those wheeled purposes,
And give determination, energy, speed, and discipline within me,
And get all the pleasures and success and the tufted crown planned,
And never hurt anybody, worthless because it is not incredible else,
And the layers in the ways never calculated the range,
Yet vibrates appealing well to me,
And the gaze of the yelling officer shames the shameless out of man.