where do you think you're going, bub?

i stop

in a bad neighborhood

in the city

at a gas

station, to use the restroom

and to buy

a drink

and a snack or two.

cameras

are everywhere,

the man

behind the counter

is holding

a gun behind the bullet

proof glass.

the rotisserie

hot dogs

are in a safe, as well

as the fried

chicken wings

and condiments.

when i get back out to my

car,

three young men

in masks,

beginner thugs,

wearing Mickey Mouse

t-shirts,

are sitting on the hood,

the smallest one

asks me,

in his squeaky adolescent voice,

so where do you think

you're going bub?

i start to laugh, having not

heard the word

bub since i was twelve.

home i tell them, excuse

me, gentleman.

i need to pass.

you have to pay the toll,

they tell me,

before you leave.

so i give them each ten dollars.

then drive off.