Gasoline

Blame’s got little to do
with how he proves his mettle
tonight in the back parking lot
of the Holiday Inn.  It’s not the pot,
his exhausted parents, the sagging small
town on the brink.  Stark prospects alone
can’t say what praise and only praise knows:
his obeisance stoked by the jumpy gods
to seethe by day and drag the night.
In stacks and frayed bell-bottomed denim
he ducks behind the rear
bumper of a ’73 Cadillac Coupe Deville:
chrome rocker molding; soft Ray
tinted glass—the same late model and make
his father vowed just last week
he’d one day bygod own.

In the moonlight a green garden
hose stems out and over the Caddy’s Ohio plates.
Down to his knees, he sucks
hard in the hope this time
he won’t swallow—and prays,
lit lanky in the blessed heat of mine and take,
prays it’ll all be better, prays pray for me:
praise, praise his sky-blue bug on full,
praise the lucent June night,
praise Cherry Street stoplight by stoplight,
praise stolen looks at girls
he’d never dare ask out,
praise Big Star in his ear,
high test in his throat, the scent
of gasoline everywhere
dripping stout from his hands.

This poem was previously published at Valparaiso Poetry Review (Fall/Winter 2014-2015 Volume XVI, Number 1).