Octane

The click of the pump

is the only sound on the street.

The fluorescent tubes hum

a flat, buzzing note

that hurts the back of my eyes.

Near the drain, an oil slick

shivers in the dark.

A rainbow made of filth

and the things we leave behind

when the tank is full.

Inside, the roller grill

turns the last three hot dogs

into shriveled, leathery fingers.

The clerk is staring at a screen

while the world smells of ozone

and wet pavement.