At the exit station
there’s a graying workman
at peace near the gaspumps
lighting a filterless cigarette
, his shovel cut and earth-leaned
, his hand cupped against the wind.
I imagine him one of the few hai
karate customers of the coin-op men’s room.
He and his two
helpers prevent our attention from requesting
bottled water. Instead
we find cold Coors
to embody our stolen valor
, this year, nineteen eighty-nine.