there are power lines in our blood lines

The dim light of a vehicle passing washed over his tired eyes--it was his nineteenth hour awake. He yawned again, scratched his cracked palm over the jagged hair that had begun growing from his chin.
Can't get tired now, he thought, three hours to go.
With this meek attempt at personal motivation, he drank a gulp of coffee, rolled down his window, and lit his seventh cigarette of the night.
I really ought to quit, he thought, the habit gets worse when I'm on route.
The tiny orange tip of his cigarette traveled with him down the desolate country road, leaving a microscopic trail of ash ever time he flicked. The only evidence of his body being in this place at that time, evidence no one would ever see. Barely evidence at all.
Every so often, a car will pass his rig; He watches the two white eyes approach, then adjusts his gaze to the rear-view mirror as they continue on, two red eyes warning: watch the road.
Another yawn as he tosses the butt out the window. He wonders odd things like: If I gathered up all the cigarette butts from this road, I wonder if it would fill this truck.
With the cool night air dusting his face, he looks over to the seat next to him. Reclined, swallowed in blankets, sleeps his son, barely eight. His heart fills with love and guilt, both paralytic in their own way.
He notices that the power lines, looking like dark giants in the night, keep rhythm with his breath. He passes three poles on every inhale, he passes three poles on every exhale. He keeps this time as he rolls up the window, takes another swig of coffee.
Two hours and fifty minutes till we can stop, he thinks.
And his phantom machine travels through the darkness, gears shifting and hinges creaking, but with no one around to hear it.