He’s a truck

A red-cabbed rig
flying just above the spires of Golden Gate Bridge.
What the hell — right? A truck, aloft? Sort of lovely
though for the moment, looking around. There’s
a nice stereo and tapes and a bed tucked in
behind the driver’s seat.
The problem’s his trajectory.
He’d hoped he might line up
with the road below, touch down, head on over to
Sausalito for a movie. But there’s too much
sideways momentum and the truck flew west.
Flew past. Drifted.
Over. Out.