8:15

8:15 every morning I see him.

In his big red Ford truck, with his window down just enough to let the smoke from his cigarette go through. His sunglasses on as he mumbles the words to whatever song is on the radio while driving said truck with one hand. Possibly with the help of a knee.

I see this, every weekday morning. The same time, the same place.

Am I crazy for thinking about him? Or thinking about us? Or is this just a fantasy that'll never see the light of day?

Cover By @RebekahHeart