Exxon Station
By John Trigonis

 I spied her face in a nimbus cloud just past Savannah, GA.

With gas prices starving my wallet jackal-like,

this Garden State escape could be shortchanged by a

parched tank somewhere south of the Mississippi, out west in

lonesome San Francisco or anywhere else the road

rolls opposite my shadow grown long by her sunset smile.

With eyes like acid rain, I winced past my own hazy

deliquescence (melting at 3.59 a gallon) as Nō dancers mimed

My Last $35 beneath the slow kissed coronas haloed in my mind.

Those same burns, ashen and horseshoed in hers,

driving us further. Away.

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