Self-Service

I was staring at the couple in the sedan

how she was screaming without making a sound

and he was just looking at the dashboard.

I didn't hear the click.

The gasoline ran over my boots,

soaking into the leather until it stung.

Now there’s an iridescent, oily swirl

reflecting the buzzing red 'Open' sign

and I’m standing in a puddle of my own

stupid lack of attention.

It's in my hair.

I've washed it twice and I still smell like

a mistake at a rest stop.