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Rednecks
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Gaithersburg, Maryland
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- At Scot Gas, Darnestown Road,
- the high school boys pumping gas
- would snicker at the rednecks.
- Every Saturday night there was Earl,
- puckering his liquor-smashed face
- to announce that he was driving
- across the bridge, a bridge spanning
- only the whiskey river
- that bubbled in his stomach.
- Earl's car, one side crumpled like his nose,
- would circle slowly around the pumps,
- turn signal winking relentlessly.
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- Another pickup truck morning,
- and rednecks. Loitering
- in our red uniforms, we watched
- as a pickup rumbled through.
- We expected: Fill it with no-lead, boy,
- and gimme a cash ticket.
- We expected the farmer with sideburns
- and a pompadour.
- We, with new diplomas framed
- at home, never expected the woman.
- Her face was a purple rubber mask
- melting off her head, scars rippling down
- where the fire seared her freak face,
- leaving her a carnival where high school boys
- paid a quarter to look, and look away.
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- No one took the pump. The farmer saw us standing
- in our red uniforms, a regiment of illiterate
conscripts.
- Still watching us, he leaned across the seat of the
truck
- and kissed her. He kissed her
- all over her happy ruined face, kissed her
- as I pumped the gas and scraped the windshield
- and measured the oil, he kept kissing her.
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from
Imagine the Angels of Bread
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