Gas Station Stars
In my town, there are wooden stars painted gold
hanging on a gas station fence for all the kids who
aren’t coming home. And the font betrays just how
serious the message…just a name and a visage…
a sight we can’t unsee. And this wish, just a tank
on empty, makes me drive miles away so I don’t
have to see those names that grew up with me.
In my town, we don’t go out on Sundays…not to
a church or a supermarket…just wide streets with
cars parked on them. A girl with a city’s taste in
music opens her window to drip out ethereal bits
of sonic nothing. Sometimes I hear her. Sometimes
I’m ears-deep in my tub, fake drowning.
We spent a year wrapping our heads around that
fire that brought down Terry’s drug store. We spent
a month cleaning everything up. No fire department.
Just us. And one morning, with our backs bent over
and hurting, we stood up straight again for a season.
