Spill

The nozzle clicked. Full.

I pulled it out, slow,

but a bead, then a slick

ran down the side of the tank,

splashed on the concrete.

A quick, rainbow sheen.

And the fumes,

sharp, clean,

like a punch to the gut.

Suddenly it was '98,

sun beating down

on the cracked driveway,

my uncle's Ford,

rust bleeding through the paint.

He was siphoning gas,

a rubber hose, a bucket,

the smell clinging to everything,

to his calloused hands,

to the air.

Something about

a quick twenty, a short trip.

Always a short trip.

The heat rising off the pavement

made the air thick,

just like now,

a perfect memory

of a mistake.