Bat Boy Heavy   Fifty feet of the stupidest big rig on the road: a U-Haul panel truck pulling a Honda sedan, a dubious cigarette cupped in the driver’s hand, a full tank of gas, crawling up the Sierra wall and plummeting into America, through Truckee and Reno and Sparks, he calls at every pit stop, I’m coming, another three hundred miles closer, coming, baby, I’m coming, he’s crazy happy, snow in the Rockies cannot stop him, his favorite songs are Goin to the Chapel, You Know My Name, New York New York, Time Is Tight, Save the Last Dance for Me, he sings to some crows east of Casper, I’m coming, to a magpie outside of Kearny, the ball boy painted on the box awaits the pitch, the flag on the aerial flaps insanely, the plains erupt with biblical storms, then Chicago, Cleveland, past the lake, the Alleghenies and Scranton and Netcong, the great towers rise up singing their Lorelei blues: win me, trust me, come home to me. He’s twelve hours early, every last chip at stake — all in.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont July 2011