On the drive back from LA
we pass through almond trees dusted with white blossoms,
from mountains, rolling hills, farmland, to a web of powerlines,
half-way houses of gas stations and their convenience stores
with heavy duty oil booster and engine oil treatment,
thirsty tune-ups in a 32-ounce glass,
models of Chevron gas trucks from different years
mounted above the cashier where there's phone
and gas plastic, but no redemption cards,
flag decals, flaming eagles, skulls grinning inside
glowing crosses, girls in stiletto heels wrapped in the American
flag, a dust brush, a life lite, a flashlight and a CD organizer for the car.
We settle on a jumbo pack of corn chips
sealed with its own container of salsa, pull-off top.
I am hungry and want to get it
the way I thought about you
all weekend on a retro hotel bed
carved with roses.