A couple weeks back, I stopped at a truckstop off the turnpike. It was late and I wanted to call home, but all the payphones were in use and the way those men reclined against the wall, I could tell it was going to be a while. To kill time, I went to the rest room to clean my face to wake up for the wait. I go to push the button for the hand-dryer and above, tucked in with the usual, racist shit was this poem:
In my old home
which I forsook, the
cherries are in bloom.
I forgot about calling home and crashed in the sleeper. Can't help thinking, dreaming, really, that I might run across the guy who wrote that on the road somewhere.
Contributed by TruckinTom.
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