The soft underbelly of convention centers: cities carve them in their hearts then crown them with jeweled views. And then the trucks crawl through the fat filled arteries. Trucks migrate the tunnels, burrow under the flesh. Trucks drive straight through portals, onto the main floors, come to rest in the heart, the throne rooms of commerce.

Crazy.

But in the meantime, no one wants all these trucks and truck drivers in their city.

Trucks are diverted to the back corners, to marshaling yards. And the cities demand you pay to park in those too. Mostly there's a port-a-potty and a two day wait. San Diego. Savannah. New Orleans. Chicago, entire houses built under the roof in spring; here there's running water, candy machines in the marshaling yard. Across the road the park has a trail kissing the steps, the crystal water of Lake Michigan.

San Fransisco, China Basin. The bathroom is a magnet undermined by the homeless after sundown. Anise grows five feet tall. On one side there's an auto junk yard surrounded by razor wire. This side, nothing but the Bay, lights coming on off the Bay Bridge and dark skin men walking back with fishing poles. The Chineese restaurant has take-out and there's a bar on the corner where you and I get a beer. As it gets dark we hang the sun-shower between the truck and the trailer. You set your lawn chair looking out while I take all my clothes off, let the sprinkle run. I lather up to shave my legs. Tomorrow we'll pull the bicycles from the belly-boxes and pedal all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge.