Fumes

by Kivi Weeks

fresh air in the city is never truly fresh.

there’s always a hint of diesel to remind you of home.

to remind you

of gas station hangouts

with the neon light shining over your tanned friends

the moon swollen large in the sky like a water balloon

you were too old to throw

but young enough to miss.

the heavy air reminds you

of hot nights and gatorades bummed from the only friend with a job

of smacking the shit of your own legs at the pinch of a phantom mosquito

of not partaking in your friends’ first cigarettes

but enjoying being near their rebellion.

it reminds you of the desperation of your “First Time”

lying in the grass looking up at the stars you’d come to miss one day

listening to the cars rush past on the highway

and thinking about how his kiss tastes of tobacco and

how you probably taste like a sour mix of gas station candy and cheap vodka.

his hands pawing at you feel like that of a bear that doesn’t know he’s not human

and you are not enjoying it for the act of love

you are enjoying imagining telling this story one day

when you’ve left the gas station long behind.

and you will leave it all behind, won’t you?

won’t you cast off the shackles of your upbringing

like manikles of gold?

or will you be haunted by your vaunted truckstop existence,

misfit now, paying the price for popularity as not much more than a child.

because you can’t seem to ditch the taste of Y’all on your tongue.

it can’t be healthy, making the waystation your final destination.