Piltdown Man

Popping out of the dark         reddish "Merry Christmas" haze         twinking blinking land of Nod (or         rather it's Ned, the hefty trucker);         eyes, steel-belted radials,         in a rig big like Santa Claus;         a Stegosaurus         swinging sabre-toothed tail         & flexing padded paws         to gobble night.         Loads so dreary-weary their chrome-plated         swamps are debris after a tank battle         for troglodyte trilobites &         chocolate coloured ooze         belching brown down funnel flaps         to carve deep bellows inside earth.         Such energetic slaves         to cough & sound their         wheezing sandy blasts make for         breaks in a clearing         for I see our trucker,         eons from now,         wedded to sentiment and rock         perfectly preserved (to the dismay         of future inhabitants), a fossilized         remnant complete with         steering wheel embedded in his chest         (forlorn and anatomically correct much as         dolls used in assault cases).         In a vision,         envisage his life         replete to the last Raggetty-Anne detail          - straw-coloured hair, for one,         looms like binder-twine or         horse-hair thread tugged from a dirty mattress         which props a toque or baseball cap,         tobacco staining the resident         gum chewing Neanderthal         with tartan lumberjack shirt.         Contact with Piltdown Man,         soggy Homo Erectus         given to gunning engines,         churning rubber as cavemen         might in the         La Brera tarpits.         Consider a farmer         brief centuries ago         stumbling onto a similar scene         pocketing no cloverleafs         of his own pasture's making         but concrete expressways         looming thru the fog         & damp, then         coming to his senses,         hard-pressed as I.