Peots Corner – August 2025

A truck driver is made of grease and engine oil
packed in pastry covered in crimson ketchup
13 is the number of crunching gears in his Kenworth
13 is the number of daily hours sitting in his cab
his childhood revolved around his precious toy trucks
his bed sides sported two wheels at front and four at back.

He loves to dismantle and rebuild machines
on finding a leftover bolt, he does it all over again.
His saviour is his 10 stack CD player
belting out favourite head banging heavy metal.
He has a healthy dislike of drinking water
originating from too many urinating stops.

His tattoos make him look scary
but he would run a mile from a bar-room brawl.
With eyes focused on the road in front
the sea, the forest and bush pass him by, unnoticed.
His weekly circuit is seldom direct
through three eastern states and back again.

He never reads; he never draws.
What are literature and art anyway?
He doesn’t take drugs to keep him going
the thrill of the truck’s engine is motivation enough
the synchronicity of his arm and leg
as he changes gear is a sight to behold.

His day’s work done
he climbs to the back of the cab
falls into bed
dreams of tomorrow’s open road.

I looked down at an ant today,
I tried not to hurt her or get in her way.
She carried crumbs five times her size
That’s strength that wins a science prize!
I watched her walk a dirt track,
Then disappear and not come back.
Do ants have maps inside their heads?
Or maybe science books in their beds?
I learned they talk with smells, not words,
(Not like us or dogs or birds)
They sniff the ground to say, “Go here!”
Their tiny brains are pretty smart and clear.
They’re smaller than my little toe,
They build huge cities down below.
And now I think, just maybe, possibly,
The smartest things are smaller than me.