Maudy Mae

I strolled into the truckstop
and there stood Maudy Mae,
Her hair half up in curlers,
the same as every day.
“What-a-ya have there boys,”
she called across the room,
“somebody catch the door,
an’ somebody fetch the broom.”
Maudy worked the trucksop
from sundown until morn,
Always had a smile on,
never looked forlorn.

I walked up to the counter,
threw keys down on the glass,
ordered “blackest” coffee
and a saucer for some class.
Mae brought out a sweet roll,
and set it on the side.
“Its free,” she said, “don’t worry,”
it looked a little dried.

I said, “Hey Maudy,
did you hear about old seven,
the chief’s old Peterbuilt,
he liked to call Blueheaven?”
I told her how it jackknifed
over on Charter Ridge,
about how that Peterbuilt
didn’t make the bridge.

Maudy always joked about
big rigs out on the hill,
and how she’d been stuck
with the Indians truckstop bill.
As she wiped away the crumbs
piled on the counter top,
her rag seemed to dampen
as blue tears began to drop.
Maudy worked the truckstop
from sundown until morn,
always had a smile on,
never looked forlorn.