Revision

The gas station smelled of old burnt beans

and a lemon spray that didn’t work.

The car light flickered on its means

where the shadows like to lurk.

Inside the stall, the paint was thick,

a beige that looked like dried-up cream.

Someone had used a knife or pick

to finish off a private dream.

A name was gone, just silver scars

where the metal showed beneath the coat.

Scratched out under fluorescent stars,

a jagged hole inside a throat.