At The Cross Roads

We let the sloping exit ramp
take us up and off the highway
letting the car slow
under its own weight.
The station is desolate,
the price absurd - but
this is Connecticut -
a transition between worlds.

The attendant has a crew cut
and a neat shirt.
It is only when he steps
from behind the register
that we see the tatoos
that dance up his arms.
He does not smile.

Another family comes in -
a dad and two little girls
dressed for the beach,
they tow a boat behind
their SUV.

A young man leaves
his dented station wagon
at the pump
and swaggers through the doors.
He wears a wife beater,
his arms lean with youth.
His pants sag,
sinched with a belt
around his buttocks.
He does smile and asks us
if we know how to get to
Manchester?

As we pull away
from the barren strip the station
stands on,
I wonder if it closes at night.
I wonder if the attendant will look
out the window at the dimming light
as cars come and go.
I wonder if he will shut out the lights
and lock the doors at some point,
or if the relief will come
sliding up in the dark
some time long after the moon has risen
and the streetlamps have begun to hum.
I wonder what his car's tires will sound like
as he presses gently on the accelerator,
as they lift and fall
over the cracked and buckling black top
heaved by the frost
that will come again and again.