The clock on the pump says it's threeseventeen

The clock on the pump says it's three-seventeen,

the light is a cold and a sickly pale green.

I’m buying some gum just to hear a voice speak,

my knees are unsteady, my spirit is weak.

A puddle of washer fluid, electric and blue,

is swirling with oil like a poisonous stew.

The clerk behind glass doesn't look at my face,

just slides back my change in this hollowed-out place.