I saw him at the Shell station filling his tank

I saw him at the Shell station, filling his tank,

the man who took the title and the corner view.

I felt the old bitterness, heavy and rank,

like the smell of the fumes and the grease on my shoe.

I sat behind the glass of my windshield and stared,

waiting for him to look up and see my spite.

But he struggled with the pump and he never cared,

he didn't even know he’d been part of the fight.

The pump handle clicked and he walked to the till,

a guy with a mortgage and a bad, limping gait.

I realized then that I’m standing here still,

while the world has moved on from the size of my hate.