—Gas, oil on canvas, 1940
1.
This gas man seems
like a banker in his dark
tie, brown vest, brilliant
white shirtsleeves,
his jacket maybe slung
over a chair in the small
white station. He tidies
the rack of oil cans.
Turns them label-side out.
Bald, unsmiling, alone,
not lonely, he looks
like you. And the red
enamel pumps wait
in silence, heads turned
to look for us …
2.
Pulling in, I might ask for
directions, just for something to say
in all this quiet, in all this
emptiness. Nothing but bug hum
and the long spills of light
from the windows, his left-open door.
Though I imagine he likes it
this way, happy enough just to
nod, pump the gas, take my money …
3.
This gas station must be
going out of business. When was the last time
anyone stopped? The attendant
leans over, straightening the unsold cans of oil
again—a full rack—between the tall red pumps,
their blank faces like headlights
not turned on yet. He doesn’t smile,
doesn’t notice me over here, watching quietly
as another night lowers its curtains all around
and the station sign’s red Pegasus
leaps over the trees …
4.
What can you say about a gas station
except it’s convenient, if it is, or the prices are low,
if they are? This one isn’t on the way
to anywhere. The road beside it is barely a road.
The trees crowd in on both sides, the grass
is long and yellow. Such a long time
since I’ve talked to anyone, such a long time
since anyone’s pulled in for a fill-up.
The quick ring-ring when a car drives in
he hears only in his sleep …
5.
Dear underworked, overdressed
attendant, I’m hoping you
might lean down with the change,
rest your elbow on my rolled-down
window, the better to hear
my asking for directions, the better
to draw out your time with the only one
to stop here all evening—
then pause, then sigh, then glance away,
and answer my question
with your own:
Why would you start from here?
Matthew Thorburn’s most recent book of poems is String, published by Louisiana State University Press. His previous books include The Grace of Distance, a finalist for the Paterson Poetry Prize, and Dear Almost, which won the Lascaux Prize. He lives in New Jersey.
Image: “Gas” by Edward Hopper, edwardhopper.net
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