My pickup truck is much too light for the rain, 
It takes to the water like Crane's Open Boat, 
foundering toward the edge of control, 
threatening to sink in some weed choked 
middle Georgia ditch. 

Sometimes I revel in this danger, 
become drunk with fear, skittering 
haphazardly, trying to tempt an un-named fate 
without paying any price, of life or limb, 
and cheering myself silently on my survival. 

At other times, my calmer nature 
takes command and pulls the truck aside 
where I can sit and watch the other, 
greater vessels, charge past with ease: 
Lincolns, Caddies, Eighty-eights, and 
now and then, Mercedes Benz. 

My boss man, Dale, goes by some days 
but he doesn't wave because his big Sedan 
DeVille is cutting water like a great 
Torpedo, and he knows he will see me 
at the time clock where he can show me big words 
like irresponsibility and unemployment. 

So I sit and wait for the thunderheads 
to crawl off and interrupt someone else's drive, 
knowing when I do arrive that I'll explain 
to no avail.  Dale will say he made it but 
he fails to see the basic differences in vehicles.