my money's on the t-shirt he keeps under the front seat

the testosterone trucks, pickups, with one two three or four men
inside,
zoom by in the mornings on my way to work.
i picture all these men as
sex-hungry studs. i picture them going home to
their wives or girl friends after work, and just fucking those women
non-stop; and, on top of that, the women really really like it.
they yip and squeak and writhe as those big-dicked men
slide and glide and pump and push and shove their big dicks into
the vaginae of the their juicy sex-loving women.  it goes on
half the night, the women yelping, the men pumping,
the men spurting near an entire pint of cum into their
women before the night is done. then the morning arrives,
they fuck their women one more time to do something
about their regular clockwork-dependable morning-hardons,
the sex-loving women moan and groan and cum as their big-dicked
men moan and groan and cum, and then those men are outa there,
on the road, in their pickup trucks, driving mean, or
riding mean, zooming in and out of traffic, on their way to work.
they don't seem calmed by their night of fucking. they
seem charged, energized, electrified, post-fuck mean.
i picture their big thick dicks still hard against
the insides of their stiff pants. i picture
them sitting there in the cabs unabashed showing
hardon and not another one of the men in the
cabs even takes a peek. they all sit there swearing
and work-thoughts-directed and thinking of the fucking
they did last night and the fucking they'll do tonight,
and those testosterone-filled pickups zoom between
cars and between 18-wheelers, zoom toward work and muscle-flexing
muscle-taxing mechanical electric chores.  sometimes
i do wonder about the pickup trucks that contain only
a driver, and nobody else. those trucks move pretty
mean, too. i can almost never see the driver's face,
but it generally looks hard, stern; sometimes the driver
is kinda young, cute, sexy. but the eyes are cold.
i think he's thinking of his well-fucked girlfriend;
she was well-fucked last night, and she'll be well-fucked
tonight. his dick is hard. he's alone in the truck.
one hand is on the wheel. i'm pretty sure where
the other hand is. maybe: his pants are unzipped
entirely, his big cock jutting out of them, and with
that
free hand he is jerking himself off.  zooming in and
out of traffic, one hand on the wheel, the other
hand on his big cock; he moves skillfully along
negotiating all obstacles. i wonder where the
cum goes when he spurts it.  and i'm sure he
spurts it; he couldn't just sit there stroking his dick
thinking of the fucking he's done and the fucking
he's about to do, and then not spurt--just
zip it back up hard into his pants. nah, he spurts all right.
but into what? and where does it go. ah, the mysteries
of the road, the wonders of the highway.

--Carl Miller Daniels (This poem first appeared in FUCK!, Vol 7, No 11, November 2004. It also appears in my book Gorilla Architecture, published by Interior Noise Press in 2011.)