Two seats wide, Ham Hands
eats a foot-long at the corner
table. Cheetos stain blue
jeans a Nevada orange.
At pump four, Two-Thirty pulls
the nozzle from his metal truck
just as Legs gets out
on the other side. She’s yelling
about walking home, comes around the front
to push him. He slings gas near
her jean skirt, a couple drops hit,
sliding down towards her bare feet. oh,
fuck. She looks down, looks up.
They stand still, grinning at each other
like a couple of bank robbers at noon.
Three fat boys lick
ice cream cones the color of Pat
Nixon’s skirts, melting.
Their mustaches will come in early
and fragile, prized like the dog tags
their fathers gave them.
An arrow near the
exit points towards the highway.
Trucks wheeze by like
bitter great uncles.
The meridian shakes with
topless Oleander. The headlights
At the cash register, a trucker
winks while he puts a dollar bill
into my tip jar. The door rings
as he lets it fall behind him.
I watch, growing richer, gently.