Riders of the Black Tar Trail



Riders of the Black Tar Trail
- Malcolm E. Hein

Shaken awake by the crowing cock
(Rather a ring, for the cock is a clock),
I crack an eye and lift my head:
Time to rise, forsake this bed
Of rumpled sheets and foamy pillow
'Neath the stars and swaying willow
Outside my window pane.

The fire's out, I turn the knob,
Put on the joe, I hate my job:
Need five cups to face the grind
Of daily trek and words unkind,
Displays obscene of middle digit
From fellow rider, a mental midget
In the passing lane.

Her steely hide is rusty red;
Her blood is black, too seldom bled;
Her hooves are bald, would fail inspection;
One eye is out, a bad connection,
But she's got more heart than 50 Porsches
And packs the pull of ten score horses
With a V-8 'neath the hood.

So it's out the door and farewell kisses
For pooch and kids and little missus.
I mount my steed, Mustang she ain't,
Step on the gas, giddy up Ol' Paint!
She bucks and wheezes, sputters and squawks;
She blows blue smoke for sev'ral blocks
Ere settlin' down for good.

I obey the signs when they say stop
Or yield or slow and when a cop
Puts on his lights I mutter an oath
And smile a smile (though I am loath);
And when I merge my sole desire
Is a patch of road beneath each tire
Outside the breakdown lane.

T'was a dreadful day some years ago,
Despite the fear and sense of woe,
With heavy heart I left home camp
And pointed Paint toward entrance ramp
Of Interstate Four-Ninety-Five,
My only goal was to arrive
At work, on time, still sane.

With cruise set this side of lawful
And radio blaring some song awful,
I sip my coffee and light a cig
When up behind me pulls a rig:
He's in a damn tailgatin' hurry
And on his face I see the worry
As though he's being chased.

I slide Ol' Paint to the right,
Hopin' p'raps to catch a sight
Of the predator that's on his tail,
When he pulls behind me on the trail
And a chauffered limo speeds on by,
Cuts me off like spit in the eye
And a slap in the face.

I honk my horn and flash my lights;
It's time to act, assert my rights
As keeper of the meek and frail,
As guardian of the Black Tar Trail,
For Chevy, Ford, and Pontiac,
For Joe and Jim, for Bob and Jack,
(To hell with Blair and Brett).

I pat Ol' Paint on the dash
And gird myself to talk some trash;
I pull beside the arrogant perp
And shout the words: YOU'RE A _____ JERK!
(For reader meek I've bleeped the word,
For I know it's one too often heard:
That procreative epithet.)

He displays his dismay in the usual way
By flipping the bird and pulling away,
But I'm not finished with him yet
And pigs will fly before I let
This hired gun off so easily.
He's gonna pay and pay dearly:
It's the law of the Black Tar Trail.

I spur Ol' Paint to catch this clown
And motion his window to roll down;
Though his cap is set at a rakish tilt,
His arrogant smile begins to wilt;
Then he smiles and motions to the rear
And a visage terrible does appear
And I begin to quail.

I still can see that face some nights
When I fall in bed and shut the lights:
I close my eyes, drift back to work,
Called on the carpet and called a jerk;
I start and turn, squirm and toss,
That visage terrible was my boss
And now I'm unemployed.

It's been five years since I've held a job;
My life's a mess, I'm such a slob.
The street's my home, my bed's a bench;
I drink cheap wine, my woe to quench;
From dawn to dusk I roam the street
Seeking succor from those I meet
Because I got annoyed.

Our little minds can't understand
The Mind of God, what He has planned
For dying stars and worlds unknown
For seeds of fate that He has sown;
One day you're in the catbird seat,
The next you're trying to compete
For that last parking spot.

So when you ride the Black Tar Trail
Bear in mind this woeful tale.
Keep your eyes fixed straight ahead,
Your words of anger left unsaid,
Your fingers wrapped 'round steering wheel,
Your thoughts as pure as tempered steel
And from your mind all malice blot.

Let the speed freaks pass you by,
Greet their rage with blindered eye.
They'll scratch their heads in disbelief;
They'll rent their coats and gnash their teeth:
"How dare he ignore my gestures wild?
How dare he act in manner mild
Whilst I sit here venting spleen?"

And when you see a homeless soul
On whom fate has charged a higher toll,
Be kind in word, be kind in deed;
Judge not his plight, but his need:
Toss him a buck or two or three,
That homeless soul just might be me.
And may all your lights be green.

About this poem

Light verse look at the daily highway trek also known as the commute to the labor camp.

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Written on July 13, 2020

Submitted by mhein50 on December 06, 2021

Modified on March 05, 2023

4:58 min read
2

Quick analysis:

Scheme Text too long
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 4,437
Words 964
Stanzas 19
Stanza Lengths 2, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7

Malcolm Hein

Retired during the Covid-19 pandemic and not missing the Black Tar Trail. More poetaster than poet. But, hey, so are most writers of poems. more…

All Malcolm Hein poems | Malcolm Hein Books

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