Wednesday, July 9, 2014


The clouds sailed the sea above
the station where I pumped gas,
the breeze like waves teasing
the fuel-fumed dock

But the broken nozzle demanded
a firm grip on the handle, and I
must be practical, after all
this time without wings or sails

Still, the wind whispers a call
to the weighted, would-be wayfarer,
the siren summons of the free
and boundless blue sky

And I on the cement stood
anchored by the greasy hose
beside the cigarette ads

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