A Poem about gas stations.
When I came to the States, I dared and I dreamed
of cheese on my sandwich but with bread not steamed.
And quickly I found my newest infatuation
It's not cheese or ice, it's the American gas station.
Today I walked in and my what did my eyes lay hold...
but rabbit poop ice keeping my Dr. pepper cold.
I felt the sky open as I added the cherry,
flavoring no doubt to make you skip and be merry.
Then I turned to the rotating sausage and dogs
and wondered again how many organs would be clogged
by the spinning wienies toasted Hollywood brown
But, I skipped those for now and headed around.
The crusty Kolaches with that halo of grease
Corn nuts and those elusive Boston Baked Beans.
It's almost too much for my mind to take in.
My eyes all a twinkle, I don't know where to begin.
Fried Pork Rinds taunting 0 grams of carbs
I'm so glad that's good for my Atkins and heart.
Wash them down with a 64 oz cup of caffeine.
With more choices of gum than should ever be seen.
I chat with the cashier and think to myself
What's with the clipboard? Are you counting the shelves?
But I will tell you that when I walk through those doors,
it keeps me wanting to come back to buy more.
The hot dogs, the candy, the oversized Coke.
The people inside, the blogs they provoke.
Now if I could just pump the gas all would be dandy
Besides, gas in my car sure would be handy.
On Shell, on Mobil, on Valero and Racetrack
tomorrow is new and tomorrow I'll be back.
