A gust of wind the pump's slow heavy cough

A gust of wind, the pump's slow, heavy cough,

and suddenly it's there, a metallic bite.

Not pleasant, no, but something tearing off

a moment, pulling back the fading light.

That sharp, sweet sickness, oily and so deep,

it coats the back of thought, a chemical stain.

And I'm on a highway, where the secrets keep

themselves behind the speed, through falling rain.

The rainbow sheen on asphalt, under lamps

that hummed a yellow, tired, lonely song.

The click of the nozzle, filling up the amps

of some late drive where everything felt wrong.

And the world was just the road, a silver thread.

That smell, it holds that feeling, still unsaid.