Gas stations in New Jersey are always
on the wrong side of the highway. The needle
slinks a slow descent toward empty's south end,
the orange dot imploring for shots of the light
and sweet. Yet the Exxons and Gulfs
sit smug across the concrete divider,
flickering dumb fluorescent smirks.
I ask you what's on your mind, and your spinning dials
dart out the shotgun-side glass, where gas stations
hopelessly fail to exist. I ease off the pedal,
coast in neutral, try to save the fuel that's left.