Poem of the Week

You. At the Tire and Lube Express. You said lube

and I - did you notice? - revved. Your name tag

was missing so I read your hair, curled like a string of e's,

your forearms drizzled with soft hairs like a boy's

first moustache. Apart from that, you were built

like a walrus. The kind of man that drives a Ford

pickup. Black or silver. You said, 'There might be a gas leak

and We can't fix that here, but don't worry, we'll get you fixed.

By fixed you meant hooked up, by hooked up you meant

in touch with and meant nothing beyond touch.

Me. Volvo. Smelled like gasoline: I overfilled the tank

before the oil change. I took the package that comes

with a filter replacement. Have you already forgotten me?

I had trouble with the debit machine. Remember? You said,

Turn your card the other way - remember? - and took my hand,

not the card, took my hand with the card in it

and swiped it through. Remember. Please.

The gasoline. The woman almost on fire.