I was sixteen when the truck broke down
and parked despondently inside a mountain.
It was early winter.
I felt I was tossed into a vortex when the truck stopped with a screeching sound.
The headlamp was still on, like desperate eyes looking hard into a shroud
of darkness and confused.
No stars, absolutely no stars;
They had fallen into the gaping mouth of the mountain,
waiting to be fished out by the invisible hands of a late morning.
Terrifying silence came, seeping in through the windshield.
It forced into my lungs and grabbed my heart, the stench of the night air.
The driver was fidgety, trying to call someone,
No signal, he said and discarded the thought of rescue.
He was grumbling something unclear while he killed the engine.
His words lacerated the night.
I took the sleeping bag he gave me and crawled in, knowing
home was still far, far away…
Or in a good dream.