Issue 22 - 1992

At the Mobil Station
Lois Marie Harrod
Coe Review • Issue 22
The mechanic
wears a ribbed T-shirt
and hasn’t washed since Sunday.
His beard is always beginning,
and when he appears at the driver’s window
he smells of tuna and gasoline.
Where have you been, he asks,
as if I have any control over my needs.
I haven’t seen you for so long.
His accent shifts from
the smoothest Spanish,
abruptly Pakistani.
Such a nice day, cash or charge,
you should take it off
and come with me.
I know it’s August and the water
in Round Valley is as warm as it will ever be.
I hear the pump nozzle clicking,
but he’s too short to reach
the center of the windshield,
and I don’t let him check the oil-level stick.
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