The week of October 6, 2013 truckers enroute to destinations throughout the United States changed course according to plan diverting rigs towards Washington, D.C. A deliberate traffic slow down began as thousands of trucks converged on the city. Forming long, slow-moving caravans, a ring of trucks enclosed the city. On October 11th amidst sporadic violence, all trucks stopped, a great ring was closed, the blockade complete. The truckers came prepared if necessary to cordon Washington for days. Their object was to prevent all movement of traffic into and out of the city thereby immobilizing government and industry. Air traffic was halted by ground service vehicle drivers refusal to refuel planes. By the week of October 13th the truck stoppage had spread to other parts of the country, and within a week government had virtually ceased most functions. The truckers felt victory was certain. On October 18th the President called on the military to break the cordon. Reluctant clashes ensued between militant truckers and the National Guard. The military penetrated the cordon and the blockade was broken.

 

 

Chronicle of the Hours

 

Headline

“Rigs to Stop”

no potatoes, no tools, no freezers

no spuds to shuck ground

no rumble of Russets

no roar of tumbling Idahos

no shuttle to plates, to sour cream

all fruit grounded

no starch to Uncle Ott

no starch to pregnant Marys

no starch for castored babes

no starch to burping bama chicken shacks

no tuberous tunes to blow

rigs shut down

“Trucks Stop”

 

 

The First Hours

 

 

Rolling five then ten

drivers proudly sit

a great batallion swelling

in rising fumes and heat

a blockade is on

axle to axle

chesty, hairy, hauling

bucking, grinding, rigs abreast

a thousand miles and more

an inching vast communion

in rising heat

hours lose themselves

rolling five then ten

the blockade is on

rigs abreast

axle to axle

bucking, grinding, rolling, inching

a thousand miles and more

 

 

The Violent Hours

 

 

The creature shudders

a few good men

strike pain

cool bones break

violence rules

trucks stop

roads blocked

five thousand rigs

a million tons stopped

the work is done

truckers raise rebellion

Washington cordoned

convergence fixed

the knot tied

trucks meet

Union Pacific faces Portland

the circle closed

truckers east meet west

hot and cold continuum broken

arrows fixed

spears unshared

truckers risen alone

in many numbers

at once always alone

together one in many alone

bound by pride and union

 

 

 

The Final Hours

 

 

The sun fakes a Sunday

across the grey beltway

here and there it fades

in and out of red clay cuts

there rolls a slow caravan

with horns sounding long, loud, troubled

through streets sounding

angry voices, subdued, sad

truckers laid low

burning rigs fallen

sons and fathers fallen

passing now to ground

my own heart pounds

hollow longing makes and empty sound

 

 

COPYWRITE 2013, WILLIAM T. SQUIRES