He pulls up to the pump in his tan mini-van,
three screaming kids buckled in,
fills its tank and his lawn mower’s gas can,
sighs at the rumble as a Harley revs up
at the next pump over,
almost cries as a blond in black leather
wraps her hair in a red bandana,
swings her long leg over the saddle
hooks her fingers in some dude’s belt loops,
looks right at him with eyes that say
ha, you wish!
roars out onto the highway.
Author’s Comment: A fantasy materializes; reality intrudes immediately. We’ve all been there. Gas stations are places where poems appear if one pays attention.
Bio.: I’m retired after a working life of physical labor of various kinds. I was born for this gig! I live with my wife, dog and three cats (one too many!!!!) in St. Wendel, Twp., Minnesota I’ve published six books of poems, the latest “Nails” with North Star Presss of St. Cloud.