The truckers know me, as the Troubled Angel you see.
We talk of many things, as I drive on with gilded wings.
The white van I drive, with them safely arrive.
Though only a couple hundred miles I go,
On the road with Ice and snow. When all is quiet,
sometimes I would like to start a riot.
The trip seems so long, til a trucker comes along.
To my sickly little boy, they always bring smiles of joy.
Copyright ©2004 Phyllis Garland
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