Rambler Clean Sheets

Washing off four days of road dirt
after driving from LA,
sleeping in the back seat
of that old Rambler,

laying down on clean sheets
in Savannah, washing my face
in that one horse truck stop
outside Gallup and days later
eating at the Italian restaurant
run by those Lebanese brothers
in the curve in the highway in Clarksdale.

Feeling fresh and clean and happy
to have left California behind,
thinking how civilized I felt.

Then I thought a bit more and remembered
how the freshly perfumed banker
took my daddy’s farm and more
recently the perfectly groomed lawyer
took half of everything I owned,
which wasn’t much, and gave it
to my ex and her new boyfriend,

leaving me with a worn out Rambler,
a pair of pretty good work boots,
and not enough money for motel rooms.
And every poor dirty son of a bitch
never took nothing from me except
a cigarette or a dollar
they bummed ‘cause
I didn’t mind giving it to them.