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poetry Uncategorized

the filling station

i didn’t remember
the place
it held no special
fascination
in fact
upon stopping
i concluded it presented with
the patina of a general store
that hasn’t been patronized
regularly
since the civil war

a defunct garage
whose oil slicks
and greasy fingerprints
never quite faded
the filling station still attached
vestigial limbs
and all i need of the world
is a damned ginger ale

the olfactory sense

indeed smell

is most closely tied
and evocative of
long forgotten memories
upon crossing the ruin’s threshold
this dynamic enveloped me

time faded
to a sepia and cream
1979
this is the autumn
of my second year on earth
yes two
because that’s how many fingers
i’m told to hold up

i am in his left arm
too little to walk here
his
black suede cologne
and blue shirt i cling to

candy cigarettes, circus peanuts,
loose tobacco, boston baked beans,
royal crown cola,
and ring pops
observed for sale

he bought me a much wanted moon pie

the color flooded over
back to now
and my cheeks are wet

but how good it was
to see him

to be carried again

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