you can ask why the old man sits
on the porch beside an old Mobilgas pump

and maybe he will answer. that is
if he's awake enough to answer.

the porch is hardwood polished smooth
by years of wind and dust

and boots. the old man slumps
in his rocking chair with one alligator

booted foot sticking out. leathery
hands drooping from the arms.

his face obscured by the rim
of a Jack Daniel's ballcap. his mouth

a thin grim lipless line. balancing
an unlit pipe.

his blue denim shirt sporting
a few flakes of ash.

the sides of his jeans peppered with dust-
colored handprints.

the Mobilgas pump stands like a sentinel.
its round white face glaring blandly.

at one point it probably had expression
back when people depended upon it

to fuel their wanderlust. back when
its wrinkled companion had youth

and vigor enough to greet people.
while he filled their tanks people would ask

"what's going on today?" he would grin
and say "too much of not enough."

they would laugh and pay him for gas
plus tip. sometimes they'd give him

homemade bread or cookies and
he'd share it with other customers.

"see ya later" they'd say before they drove
away. he'd grin again, wider perhaps, and say

"don't stay out of too much trouble."
people usually felt better about going

back on the road after stopping. nowadays
the old man and Mobilgas pump

sit on the porch like two rusted relics
watching the vanguards of a faster world whiz by