Twelve Dollars

The damp is coming off the asphalt.

Everything smells like exhaust and old oil.

I’m looking at my phone, then the screen,

then the gray clouds.

Twelve dollars. The pump clicked

and the handle went dead.

I got back in and turned the key.

The needle didn’t even move.

It’s just shivering at the bottom of the red.

I’m sitting here in the hum of the engine,

wondering how far I can go

on a feeling that isn't... that isn't enough.