At the Gas Pump
From lottery tickets to bluebells, a Tennessee poet captures the crux of American life at the pump.
A two-can tobacco signboard announces
paradise ahead. Just come inside and join
the long line of lottery fans that stretch
around the candy stand. Dreamers
in summer shorts and flip-flops, answer
cell phones, buy cigarettes and scratch
Big Cash tickets with a lucky nickel
pinched between thumb and forefinger.
A one-stop shop for biscuits wrapped in
brown wax film, for the flavorless, black
coffee sold in white Styrofoam cups. Yet,
as I peer beyond the gas pumps,
the parking slots and busy-bustling streets,
I see the mothlike leaves unfurled, swaying
to the bands of bluebells and beer cans,
the deer mouse crossing the highway line
blazing a course for the common good.
I live my life by a miscreant’s creed.
I spy the finches. I con the clouds.
I trap the moon in the palm of my hand.
About the author
Keith Gorman is a retired factory worker, poet, and classical guitarist residing in eastern Tennessee near the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. He received his BM degree from the Sherwood Conservatory of Musicin Chicago. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in various journals, includingVerse-Virtual, Delta Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Chiron Review, andThe California Quarterly Review.