pit stop at the shell gas station
It is still outside
amidst the chaos of the world.
I gawk at the mountain ranges
that I just met some twenty minutes ago
and rub my palms together for warmth.
The gas station moves slowly.
A sole worker paces out
to catch his customer,
just quick enough
to not be disturbed this morning
by petty complaints.
His mind has taken him elsewhere.
The gasoline stench curdles
my nostril but rests on
him unnoticed,
even when he rolls home in the evening
and gives Tricia a kiss before bed.
She does not smell it anymore, either.
He leaves her awake to take
a long draw of a cigarette, alone.
The day is routine
even as the scenes around him change.
Green to snow, back to green, back to snow.
The sameness of this place tires him.
It keeps him waiting like a man
waits for free time in prison.
He has never felt more suppressed
by someone
than by the mountains
when they mock him with
predicted changes
and excited visitors
coming
to enjoy their vacation
and experience an epiphany
of beauty and complexity
grand enough to
write down in a notebook.
When he is done,
we acknowledge each other with a nod,
and I ramble away from this place
like it is an obstruction to my day
and another expense to be made.
