Tank

“When this Indian man gives me coin change at a corner gas station, I vaguely remember hope past of any real movement. How quickly clumps smolder when you only ever fill up your tank a quarter much. Again and again at this pump, repetition becomes the warden of escape, even of the mind to plan past a thirty minute lunch break. Sweep sweep, refill and smile unsincerly. Walk around aimlessly with two pitchers of sweet and unsweet tea and flick the ice of the grate with your fingers. Motion loses purpose and you forget your dignity, slowly  while your car sucks fumes.”

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