Standardized Fill

The overhead lights are a clinical hum,

turning my knuckles the color of lard.

I’m waiting for the click of the pump

but it fails, and the handle stays hard.

The fuel hits my boot and the hem of my cuff,

a cold, sharp bite that I didn't invite.

I watch the rainbow bloom in a crack

where the water is stagnant and black.

It’s a toxic, shimmering spill on the ground,

swirling in colors I shouldn't admire.

I stand in the fumes while the silence is loud,

balancing weight on a boot full of fire.