the chicken truck

the chicken truck
is a foot or two away from
my back
bumper for much of route
64. we're doing 75 miles per
hour
on a hot sunny stretch.
i'm boxed in by cars
and vans.
I can't get away
from this chicken truck.
I see the name in blue,
Perdue above
the windshield,
and a chicken's
silhouette
on the hood.
I think about death
on the highway.
the truck crushing me
like a bug,
or pushing me aside
into a gully
where i'll drown in a foot
of water. all
so that he can get his
chickens to the grocery
stores on time.
god forbid someone doesn't
have a chicken to eat
tomorrow.
no wings, no legs, no thighs.