Premium

The numbers on the pump click past three dollars

while a cold wind pulls at the zipper of my coat.

The night is a series of dim, yellow colors,

and a sharp, chemical taste is at the back of my throat.

A single drop fell on the toe of my leather boot,

soaking in fast before I could wipe it away.

In a puddle by the drain, a rainbow takes root

where the oil and the rainwater have started to play.

It’s the smell of every highway exit at dawn,

of pulling away when you should have stayed put.

The engine is waiting, the headlights are on,

and the road is a promise under my foot.