11.59pm, inner city gas station.

Tue 2008.01.01
by brian hefele
this is the place where i die,
staring over the back of my
polished red four-door,
eyeing the infinite row
of empty pumps,
barely dipping
in murky shallow nonwhite light.
i see them through a
and i picture a phantom,
six pumps down,
with a handgun beneath his jacket.
but i stand still, staring,
listening to the lub/dub
of carcinogenic blood
through the vapor-lock vein
that tethers
mechanical heart to
mechanical body.
the phantom does not approach,
and he does not move his hand.
i feel my fingers gently pulse
as my heart pushes harder, but
inside… i am calm.
and it is here that i stand waiting,
staring, listening, waiting, until
this pump
this was a very real&hellips; i mean, i was never murdered at a gas station, but i had a very strange foreboding feeling, almost the experience of a premonition, as i was fueling up once. at the time i wrote this, i did indeed drive a red four-door, a 1989 saab 900 in imola red. anyway it was one of those very emotive moments that pushes a feeling deep inside of a person, and i was able to draw this out of that. i’m still pretty pleased with it. i think i did a good job pacing it, and the title as introduction works for me.