Monday, January 7, 2013


As if only upon the remembrance of fuel
my car rolls into the gas station
like the first beast of burden
to finally think for itself
and stops

I pump high-octane as a plea
and beg it, stroking its rusted quarter panel
for at least three more zeroes
or four more bald tires
coaxing it with premium liquid chocolates
and some little verse

when suddenly I see, pasted upon the pump
a statement refusing third-party checks
and scribbled to the side, I read
that Crystal loves Bobby (signified by a plus and needing no equal)
in faded blue ink

But Bobby is now crossed out
Crystal’s made the effort to come back
not for the penny less a gallon
but to tell Bobby
her tank is full
and she pumps her own gas

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