Gasoline
A week ago I spilled
a can of gasoline
onto
the dirt floor of
the barn.
A gallon or so soaked
into the earth
and, since then,
I’ve had headaches,
can’t catch my balance.
And I can still smell
the gas,
even when I’m more
than 20 yards away.
It reminds me of
hitching west
and this ride I hooked
in the back of a
truck
the color of rust.
When I shook the
driver’s hand he smiled,
his teeth looked
like a caterpillar,
and I knew I was
beat.
The guy kept all
these rags back there,
soaked in gasoline.
It was warm
and I fell asleep
below the onslaught
of air, inside a
cocoon of reek.
When I woke up, it
was almost time
to get out. I could
feel caterpillars on me,
thought I was going
to suffocate.
He said the free ride was over, it was only a matter of
time. And I did not wish to be out west,
did not care to sit in any more cars with strangers and
talk about the pace or weather back east.
I tried to lose the
smell in a stream,
thought I sent it
up river, away
like father, the
attic, his ties.
Ryan Van Winkle
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