3 AM Pump

The road was black, a swallowed ribbon,

then suddenly, this light, like heaven

if heaven hummed with neon green,

the starkest, loneliest place I've seen.

Just my car, a silent beast,

at this small, artificial feast.

The pump clicks up, the dollars climb,

marking a passage, out of time.

Inside the glass, a shadowed clerk,

drinking coffee, doing his night work.

Candy bars, a wall of bright,

plastic comfort, in the empty light.

No other face, no other sound,

just fuel pouring into the ground.

And the hiss of tires, as I pull away,

leaving the glare to wait for day.