Fuzzy Nozzle

– Matt Broaddus

Fuzzy dice droop in a display window.
You’ve been acting funny since
the Tucson Lube Express
and the pinup playing cards
you said I could buy.
Behind the cashier haloed in neon,
quality meat product spins
on infinite loop rotisseries. Another exit,
another outpost of advanced capitalism
springing up like a Death Valley bloom.
I fill my tank and drive away
still tethered to the pump.
I drag the entire station,
3000 miles of stations behind me—
all that dinosaur juice, all that restroom graffiti,
the whole damn American dream—
while the persistent machine tells me
to replace the nozzle.

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