An Ode to those overloaded Mexican trucks you often see on the freeways between Los Angeles and the Mexican border.

STUFF On the 5 to Tijuana and beyond, a pickup piled precariously bursts with discarded household goods. The cast off refrigerators of Pomona. The out of fashion stoves of Anaheim. All these derelict cubic appliances piled with not a centimeter to spare, loaded as high as the driver dared. Yesterday, it was a load of chairs, bureaus, sofas, tables and wares discarded from Hollywood homes. Collections from the suburbs of America terrify me as I pass, I am afraid for my life. I fear this illegally large load will topple and squash me leaving a 1970's synthetic plaid imprint on my car. I hang back long enough to judge. Chancing a gust of wind I speed past veering far to the left. I take a quick look at the driver - at his hard, high cowboy hat - at the small dark woman at his side - at the two strong youths next to her - them all pressed against one another in the cab of the truck. I look around at the ocean of space surrounding me in my car. I look at myself in the rearview mirror. I look at the shopping bag I am transporting home after a long day on the road.