A Husband Drives into a Clark Gas Station

Michigan 1969

.

Summer-parents, young, worn,

driving aimless past dusk

circling through town

to cool off, cool down,

with wagon windows

overflowing with two wild tots,

green through the glass

in the buggy fluorescence

of this small filling station,

soft with light,

where I work late shifts alone,

inviting in the night

to a crowded husband

with a dollar bill

who stalls for time

for two and a half gallons

at 39.9 cents

to avoid going home

with his gum-popping wife

and his two green brats

already pajamaed,

sweaty, sticky with candy,

whining for Coca-Cola.

.

In his side-view mirror

he watches me,

hot, cool, twenty-six,

and embarrassed for him

embarrassed for himself.

I crouch down to fill his tank.

“Take your time, bud,” he calls back,

elbow out his window,

winking in the mirror

the pregnant wife cannot see,

nodding,

taking his moment with me.

.

I cap his tank

and take his dollar,

his fingers touch mine,

eyes saving me up for later,

his grin, my grin, launching him

with his wife and fluorescent green kids

off into the darkness that is his alone,

with his hunting dog tied to a tree

out front of his house

with two cups

unwashed

in her kitchen sink.

.