Gas Station Sunrise
By Shane Cashman
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
Urinal-like
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
I-don’t-want-to-know-who
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
Competes
Beneath
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
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