Cream Scene Carnival

Pavlovian

I smelled cheap cigarillo smoke mixed with

motor oil marching through roadside slush.

It was a short walk to the gas station,

the aroma of low-end tobacco seduced me.

I needed a plastic-tipped tube of respiratory tar,

disagreeable coffee and a suspect brick of pumpkin spice.

In I marched,

placing the items before the older woman

uncaringly scanning, that’s eight thirty-nine.

I thrust my card into the reader, waiting,

wondering where to look.

At the clerk? The card reader? Whose blessing do I

need to own these- Approved!

Look busy! Corporate’s here!

There are no customers

only short stints of idle insanity

savoring reprieves between barrages

ceaseless shit-eating grins, asinine questions

begging to be elsewhere.

It took a few rhythmic flicks of my Bic,

breathing in staccatos

huffing at the mouth of a grape-flavored chimney.

Sorry, I can’t return this without a receipt.

The man scrunched his salmon face, slamming a

stogie-sized finger on his appliance. Like a dog

he flashed his smoke-stained chompers.

I’d like to speak to your boss.

There was no destination, only stomping in the slop

exhaling,

a trail of smoke chasing cars whipping past moving

so fast I blink, they’re around the bend.

Could you mop these floors, kid?

Side to side the water moves, sloshing, shrinking.

Behind me a wagon wheel of crispy-clothed corpos smiles as they

verbally disembowel the store, their presence a pestilent aura.

Employees reroute, scatter,

eavesdrop:

This doesn’t belong here; they should be in the back.

They gawk as I mop, making me need a chemical

cure for the steady beating against my temples.

Nina wanted me to tell you: Great job!

I’m supposed to thank, smile, continue swishing a

broth of footprints, instead of asking

Why can’t she tell me personally?

I’m trained too well. I bite my lip.

I think I’ll take my 15.