MARGUERITE MARIA RIVAS

PAY AT THE PUMP

for Pump #1 at the Merit Gas Station

Fuel injector folly it may seem,
but self-serve pumps fuel my summer dreams.

"Insert card or pay cash," I do as
towering pump commands.

"Push in three seconds and wait," he informs.

Lifting the nozzle wobbly in my hand,
I grip its trigger (flaccid hose awaits),
unscrew my cap slowly
and plunge the nozzle into
the cavernway of my car's hidden parts.

"What grade do you want?" (The roving eye displays.)
"Push any one to start."
"High octane makes fuel injectors clean."

"High test, baby." I clench my jaw and wait
for amber power to cascade from watchful pump
now that my choice has been made.

"You may begin fueling," the pump's red message flashes.

I grasp his power in both my hands,
bend one knee in watchful anticipation,
caress the trigger worn smooth
by other's hands and gently tug.

Light pressure and his black hose fills;
turgid now it strains against my leg
while I look back to see the numbers roll
and mechanical lover, cool in sultry air, informs me:
"Pump is pumping."

Engrossed in feeling rushing current flow,
unmindful of spillage in this filling station frenzy,
I lift my head and scan for summer stars,
and feel the fullness of high octane ejaculate
rushing through the rubber hose.
Too soon the trigger's pressure
cuts away; it dies; it is done.

"Please do not top off," the blinking master chides.

And all too soon, with sad withdrawal,
my slackened hand unsheathes
bright nozzle.
Trickle drops of amber love
splash softly on my shoes.
as I return him to his cradle
where vigilant pump responds:

“Thank you. Please come again.”
 

Marguerite curates a weekly reading series at The Muddy Cup on Staten Island and visits the gas station frequently.