Cold Light, Warm Air

Fluorescent buzz bites sharp

above the pump, a flicker, then again.

Plastic trash bins overflow with yesterday’s wrappers,

crumpled napkins fold like lost prayers.

Diesel fumes blend with burnt coffee,

curling thick in the cold night air.

A car idles, the engine grumbles low,

a restless shadow pacing empty aisles.

The light stabs through cracked asphalt,

painting everything harsh, unforgiving.

Silence hums loud here, waiting in white glare,

a gas station’s breath, caught between stops,

where the night tastes like waiting,

and the air holds onto secrets it won’t share.