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The talking gas pump down at the Conoco
“Please enter your zip code and press the pound”
Says the temp will be thirty tomorrow
“Will this purchase be credit or debit?”

And that snow is a possibility
“Please remove nozzle and select product”
And that we must watch the road conditions
“Begin fueling now (beep beep beep beep beep)”

In a whisper:

But that’s the number 6 pump saying so,
And that one acts all weird in Bible class

Poured into the tight pants,
the grey ones with the zipper
that's afraid of heights, and
guess what? They're really
wrinkled or very wrinkled
or **** wrinkled--but they're
the tight grey ones, assumed
the thighs and calves would
handle the ironing.
Ten minutes late,
usually more. The clock
in the car, the red beat-up
'02 Cavalier, is not behind
or ahead an hour, no it's
set to some vague time
because lateness has
replaced time so why
even worry. Blood pressure, etc.
Spray on the cologne kept
in the car. Could look
up ingredients in cologne
to describe the smell
but that would take
away a little something.
So say: it smells really good
or very good or **** good--
and move on.
Walk inside, unbathed and
sun burnt--well not completely
unbathed. Washed the hair
because it's a puffy, erratic
downer otherwise.
It's all about appearance,
the bosslady said when
she made the hire.
Slipped a little.
Big woop.
Cold called the Southside
Veterinary Clinic.
They'll allow a visit.
Pack it all in the bag,
the mouse pads,
the koozies, the actual
thing to be sold:
SHEENY PUPPY, some
really heavy or very heavy
or **** heavy duty
coat treatment for canines.
The first one is on me, is said
as the package is handed over.
The vet wouldn't buy. Not then.
Probably not ever.
Ate an eighty-calorie bag of cookies.
Drank some coffee.
Stopped at the gas station, the
Conoco on 15th and Kelly,
and couldn't decide between
the fun size or the party size.
This is called the spectrum of grief.
Bought a pack of cigarettes.
Smoked three really quick
or very quick or **** quick,
like Mom might show up any
second and then tossed the pack
and the lighter.
Done with those. Forever.
This time. Or that time.
There was $20.89 in the
checking account and
a fresh girlfriend reminding
that today is one month.
Dinner. Dinner and wine.
$20.89.
You can sell only if you believe in the product.
Be really blunt or very blunt or **** blunt.
Stress is an art.
Create FUD (Fear, uncertainty and doubt).
It’s all about the presentation.
She's fresh and funny and so
self-conscious when she eats
spaghetti. Can't get
by with spaghetti
for the one-month.
No. No. No.
Be on fire and inspiring.
If you don’t know the answer, ask a question.
Answer inquiries concisely and loudly.
Humor is ****.
You can always be better. You can never be worse.
Call Mom, donate plasma or take the Xbox back.
Is this one forever?
Does forever mean dinner and wine
are necessary?
Or does forever mean that
the spectacle is frivolous?
In the cabinet at work
someone left blueberry bagels.
There's a microwave and a tub
of margarine that only
recently expired.

She was perusing the linoleum trails when I walked into conoco gas at 6:49. I bought $20 of unleaded at pump three.
"I miss my jeep, but I sure don't miss the gas mileage"
she giggled from behind me with a filmy grocery bag bracleting her wrist. He name was Kiyomi, a Japanese citrus. "When my mom was pregnant with me, that's all she would eat. She joked that she'd give birth to a fruit instead of a baby."
She told me she plucked her shirt from the hamper when I complimented her outfit, and about her "**** neighbors" with whom she shared a complex. I made an excuse for the dirt sponging my shirt and tattooing down my legs. "It's from landscaping", I said as a way to somehow justify it. I felt like I'd known Kiyomi a long time when we said goodbye.  
With a half tank of gas, I started up Genevieve and we rolled off our opposite ways. It was as I walked up and down King Sooper's ribs of commercial aisles that I was so grateful to Kiyomi, the fruit girl. She showed her humanness to me. We hung up our social normalities like jackets, and spoke in the unfabricated way children do. Friday, June 3rd, roughly 6:53 pm, a girl of soil and a girl of fruit collided in connection. Like it was natures very own conversation.