Gas Station Mercury

I'm awed by her stature when she bends her body to pump gas.
A flawless example of late summer skin.

'Nice day, isn't it?'� I ask.
Somehow, the vibrations reach her ears. She turns and stands akimbo.

She's wrapped in impossibly tight pink jeans like a piece of candy.
She regards me Venus-like, florid and lofty atop soaring breasts.

At once I see it again. The Great Wall between Abercrombie and honesty.
She's ready to squash me like an ant crashing her beach blanket.

I shift my gaze to her Volkswagon. Whoa, I almost say out loud when I see it, my saving grace.
A copy of Sexton's "Complete Poems," striving in the back seat.

She follows me in to the cash register and when she pays
My fingers, proud representatives of Exxon Incorporated, brush softly on her hand.

Thank God, she asks if I could give her a cash receipt.
I scribble 'men kill for this or for as much'� on the back, and with my perfidy done, the caricature leaves.

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