A long-haul trucker knows the highway the way most people know their own street. He can name every truck stop, find the best free shower, and track down the cheapest cigarettes. The first stanza lists these facts almost like a proud résumé, but they are all survival tricks, small economies of a life spent on the road.
Then the tone shifts. Human touch, the poem says, is "sold along this road" too, just like cigarettes and showers. The trucker "consumes it wearily," which suggests he takes it out of need rather than pleasure, and that it leaves him empty. The speaker doesn't judge him. The mood is quiet, tired, and sad.
The ending is the strongest part. In a cheap motel room, a passing truck sends a draft that rattles the walls and "threatens to tear everything apart." The room feels flimsy, and so does the man's brief comfort. The poem leaves us with a sense of how fragile and temporary his life is.