Tank

Tank

 

‘Fill up my tank with Premium,’ she said

with a sigh and she’s on a rollover in bed

all jackpot whatnot, marks Dobson’s card,

while catches pinch his plump flesh hard,

he’s holding a pulpy hand of flashy ones

you brandish, but don’t punch any codes

reach for the pump and back on the road,

all straights, all curves, all never conserve

here’s plenty of juice that’s held in reserve,

all that buried desert oil can’t fill any well,

they overflow by chance and one glimpse

can spring leaks plenty to wash and rinse,

bring it to liquors brink, distend and swell,

while this road trip clocks miles numerous,

filling tanks with Premium and Super Plus.