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Gas Station Sunrise 

I don’t trust gas stations

The bald spot to
Convertible Ratio
Is outstanding

I’ve most my hair
For now
But my sunroof
Only goes halfway

I already forgot
What number pump
I left my car

Oil leftovers
Rainbow in the gravel
With the cracked face
Of an old pueblo woman

Clean these spills
With alpaca fur or
Alfalfa aftermath or
Bermuda grass or
Crabgrass or
Bluestem or fescue
Or—just nuke it off the map,
Russia would

The big-breasted redhead
Ashes reckless
As she fills
Then shakes her nozzle

I only have a quarter-tank’s worth

The all-night cashier fumes
Framed with
The American flag of cigarette variety behind her
And hands me fingerprinted change
That has belonged to

The drifting 18-wheeler driver
Modern highway ship-captain
Steps off his freight machine
Adjusts his belt
Takes in the view
As this town
Looks just like the last town

The sun
The fluorescent awning

Headlights weaken
In the new day

And my sunroof opens
Enough to stretch the smell
Of the gasoline
Lingering on my fingertips

Trust aside
I might
Idle here a while

  • A poem by Shane Cashman


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