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Stopping for Gas in Pulaski, NY
 

It should be so easy.

Gas station straight out of the fifties—
plain Jane, greasy pumps,
no service centre here
no slot to swipe my plastic—
and smack on the big highway
fast right off the exit ramp
and you’re in, no fuss, no bother,

and out in five minutes, ten tops
if you ask for the pee key,
pay the pimply attendant who
eyeballs me like I’m the stuff
of his wet dreams, maybe wonders
what I looked like before he was born
or what size bra I wear

but he turns away as I drive off,
longing glance backward
not part of the service,
his job done

mine barely begun, more hours
on this road than I want to count,
more than I want to remember

on the big highway straight ahead,
hang a left off the main drag
and you’re back in business
hang a left off the main drag

if I could, but I can’t
here in Pulaski
where every street runs
one way, all day
not goin’ my way
turn right, find a block
to go around, easy as pie
anywhere else

but in Pulaski, where
all streets spill into Main
one-way gutters that force
everything out, and all signs
point to the big highway

This way, this way
don’t give up
if at first you don’t succeed
try, try again

I follow them in good ole American blind faith
believing core-deep that the
big road
must be just around this corner

or that one
not far past these homes
of blue-collar Pulaskins
lucky to live just a hop from

beautiful downtown Pulaski
small town America where
you’ll love to shop
at your local IG across the A train tracks
and the Pulaski five ‘n’ dime
still flashes Christmas lights
in February

enticing the weary
who know not how they
got there nor why
to come browse, rediscover
the America of yesteryear
and buy buy drive-by

the fire house.
AmVets local chapter
yum yum candy factory
signs signs all signs

leading to the big highway
so close I can hear
rubber on asphalt
going faster than I am

head-on
gas station straight out of the fifties
fast right
one slim chance to get away

from this insistent hospitality
Pulaski
New York
USA
 

—Lex Thomas
 

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