I whip out a poem every hour on the hour.

I am the convenience store of hot poems,

styrofoam words, a variety of day-glow colors.

My feelings are stale salty popcorn, not real

butter at all, best to be avoided.

There are sex offenders by the slim-jims,

the lady behind the counter beats me up.

The lonely dog by the glass door has

mites. You think, cute. But best to stay away.

Every poem is coming off the same highway

in a different car. Some need gas, some

visit dirty restrooms. Some come in

to read gun magazines, unaware

of the tension in the western corner.

She says “I told you I was LATE. You never listen.”

He sighs, “I didn’t know what you

meant” and grabs a box of good-and-plenty.

The sky turns dark. We know to stay inside.

Everyone looks up at a pile of deadfall leaves,

brown swirls in an imperfect tornado,

creating negative energy by the pumps.

Then a poem arrives, too clean, preppy, whispy.  

It walks to the register, gently asks

for Benson & Hedges. The other poems

roll their eyes, disgusted and disillusioned.

I squat with my pants down, overly drunk and

peeing by the ATM, waiting for copper pennies

to fall from heaven, eyeing the poem through the

large pained window.