Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Gas Stations

In the backseat
 I remember wanting the comfort of a diet coke,
And contemplating how I would phrase asking for a stop-
Because the tank was sustained.
I told you I was thirsty daddy.
And you told me you would stop only,
If I agreed to say those nasty things.
So I spoke those words-
And you swallowed them hard,
And excreted them back into the car-
As the sick sediment of laughter.
And that day,
There was sorrow instead of soda
At the gas station.

In the passenger’s seat
On trips hours and hours south
With your bible on my lap,
And my feet on the dashboard
I remember praying,
That the breaks would squeak to me
The sound of freedom.
I imagined the faces and polo-pinned name plates-
Of the people who would greet me on the other side,
As we ventured further south.
Still the heat was too much Daddy,
I never belonged.
And it wasn’t your fault Daddy,
But I always just wanted to stop.
At the gas station.

Riding shotgun I pleaded;
Let me pump gas Daddy.
I was equipped, and I longed to show you,
That we shared a skill-
That I’d learned to have something in common with you.
No you replied to me.
Pumping gas is a man’s work.
And I learned then,
That I belonged inside.
And I was only good for payment,
With you-
At gas stations.

In a car with you,
Wherever we may have been,
I have always needed fuel.
 On our southern sabbaticals,
Accompanied by your lies and my accent
I prayed to see a smile
From someone on the outside of my caged and moving prison.
And it just may have been you all that time  Daddy,
That made me so eager to break.
You could only ever trap me at top speed Daddy
So you taught me who I am
Getting to gas stations.

this will probs be redrafted. Maybe i'll post that too, you know, exemplify the writing process and such goodness. haha. 

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