Pumping Gas

Good lord the way her a*s

fits into them jeans is proof that

God loves us and wants

for us to be happy she pumps

her gas with a steady hand

and the clouds reflect back in

the cool of her sunglasses pouts her lip

in boredom waiting for the tank to fill I’ll

bet she’s got a three-car garage and

four TVs, streaming all the channels

even-cut lawns, maintained by Mexican

men with sharp blades and thick

rich scent, she’s got a dog with

an unpronounceable name and

an expensive pill habit

three kids, probably named like Jaxon

or Hicks and a dick husband

who drinks too much and a

mortgage that would make

a martyr blush but oh my god

that a*s in them jeans

proves that there is love.