Two Indian Truckers

It’s raining on the blacktop of I-15 and the warm wet smell
Of desert rain wafts in through my air conditioning, those eighteen
Heavy-hauling wheels wearing wishful, hissing wakes on slick roads, my
Jake-Braking, smoke-belching Freightliner bearing down on Las Vegas.
Tonka, the other Indian trucker I just met on the horn,
Is now sweet-talking some lot lizard.  Stop on by, and we’ll have us

A real party, she says, I’m just off Exit 58.  But it’s
Raining harder and mustier and he still has half a load to
Deliver down in Barstow.  Oh, what the hell, he says, it’s been too
Long since I had me a nice, juicy taste of silky-white woman. 
This load can wait.  Oh, Lordy, I ask in my obligatory
Trucker drawl, what is it about these moving monoliths grunting

Down the road that moves these women so?  And then he says to me, hell
It ain’t the trucks! It’s the bucks! And then I, still grinding gears and new
To the profession, understand:  as time hammers down, a different
Truck will groan off Exit 58 with another payload and
Another lonely trucker with his $100 daily
Wad of cash and load to blow will push into the red plush between

Her $100 per hour thighs.  So I say to him, brother,
Are you crazy? Ain’t no self-respecting Indian gonna pay
Stone-cold, hard-earned cash for something he can get on the rez for free!
And he guffaws at me, bro, there ain’t no such thing as free pussy!
His signal nearly fizzles out as I say, Yeah, don’t I know it.