whenever he pumped gas, he’d whistle a little tune
called it his “gas station song”
always brought a smile

filled up the ol’ Dodge
me riding shot gun
aroma of unleaded tickled my nostrils
hot vinyl seats branded the
back of my thighs

windows down on back country roads
hand fighting the wind,
dancing and surfing over orange lilies and weeds as tall as the truck

8-track tape player spewed out
Neil Diamond – still know every word
and am still an eight-year-old, girl riding shotgun with my Dad when I hear it