Sable

"I've got some road work for you,"
his deep voice boomed
over the phone.
For a brief second I feared
that meant paving
until I remembered it was February.
"I need you to go pick up some blueprints
for me. I'm bidding a couple jobs."
It was good news for an unemployed plumber.
Besides, anything sounded better
than being confined to the four walls
of my room so I gladly volunteered.

It felt fast doing ninety on the Thruway.
Looking down at the speedometer aged me.
My silver pick-up had some get-up-and-go
but the Blue Bullet easily did a hundred in its time
duct-taped bumper be damned. For a car that was
ten years old and held together by rusted bolts and luck
it held its own. It held a lot. It held what I let go.
Thinking about it then brought a belated smile. It's just not
what the cards held. The exits passed silently until
it was my turn to get off.

I'd never seen a gas pump that worked so inefficiently.
The price rose so slowly that I could count along.
My hand froze in place from holding the nozzle.
I rubbed it with my left one to get the blood flowing again
as I walked in to pay for the fuel. The fifty-spot
he'd given me burned a hole in my pocket. At least
he'd reimburse me for gas and tolls. I was on my own
when it came to that egg sandwich, though.

"Good luck," the tired clerk said as she handed me
the receipt. "Oh wait. You didn't buy a lotto ticket."

"It's OK. I need it just as much," I replied.

She laughed, but didn't mean it.
I took it not to heart.