I see him behind grease-smudged windows
birthmark, red face
skin puckered like a burn victim.
"It's just the way he was born," Mom said.

We drove into the full service station.
My brother and I discussed his face
one side like Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street,
the other human.

Billy outgrew his overalls last year.
He motions us to the first dusty pump.
No one else is here.

Dad rolls down the window, puts a ten
into Billy's calloused hands.
There's grease under his ragged nails.

He pumps, wipes his forehead,
smears oil like an Indian painted for war.

Little store has antifreeze, washer fluid, and snacks,
potato chips with the expiration date worn off.

"2.34, sir, thank you. Here's for the kids."
Dad hands back two dum dum lollipops,
cherry, like Billy's birthmark.

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