With a broken foot I'll take steps slower then the rising moonnto that truck stop by the corn field.nthe shorter summer nights; I know August is ending. nand I watch the shadows move against the varnished wooden walls,nAnd each one of the trucker's cotton shirts blur with their movements,nlike sad animals, a chicken with its head cut off;nstopping in mid-stride to look in my direction, naknowledging only a person.nWe're all ghosts. n