Under the Pump's Scent

Under the rusted pump, the air

folds thick with gasoline—

sharp, sour, a bite in the lungs.

A car sputters, coughs out dying breaths,

while the pavement drinks the metal drip,

slick and silver in the dirty light.

That smell pulls me back like a bad song

from a summer evening where nothing was safe—

when the world smelled like danger

and the promise of something else.

I hold the gas can, hands trembling,

heart throttle-quick with some ancient fear

wrapped in fumes and endless heat.