BP's Other Side

He leaned forward
his years worth of belly pressin’
into the Regular Unleaded pump
stroked his handlebar mustache
and stared east

This was the direction
of the rising sun,
the nearest shore,
and
Thelma Ann Parrish’s
small pink house with
the big front porch
covered in perfect
lantana, ceramic frogs,butterflies
and old cane rockers

Had she still been alive
his mama wouldn’t have approved.
Thelma Ann wasn’t a potato salad, Presbyterian kinda woman.
The fellas at the station
woulda chided him had they known
he prayed each morning her old Ford
needed refilling that day.

She was a woman with ‘a history’
A scar from far off places.
He was a man steady
as the acres of iron fence
round his farm down on Hwy 122

He liked the gap in her front teeth
the way she
knew all sorts of interesting facts
about Bob Barker
and
how her turquoise bangles jangled
when she wrote the check.

He wanted to show her the steadiness of a pension,
a lighter shade of pink,
dances in the pasture,
maybe a new Chevrolet and
introduce her to Pat Sajak.

After 64 years of aloneness he stroked his chin
and wondered if this was how lovin’ began....