a white brick building,
squat
and dirty,
deep
into the woods along
a partly
paved road.
but a gas station just the same.
circa 1969.
with a pyramid
of oil cans
stacked before the window.
a fat man was
sitting in a chair
rocking back.
the name Al written
on the tag
of his open shirt.
a woman, perhaps his
wife, lingered
in the shadows
with an apron on,
her hand
above her wide brow.
they seemed surprised,
or bemused
as we pulled up.
the man adjusted his hat
and leaned forward
in his chair, not wanting
to waste any
energy on getting up.
lost? he said,
fill her up?
we got no lead?
where are we, i asked
getting out of the car.
the woman stepped out with
a bottled coke
in her hand.
you ain't nowhere right now,
mister.
but if you keep on the road,
in another ten miles or so,
there's 95 up ahead.
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