Gas Stations Can Sometimes Be Weird at Night

—Circa 1958

While in HS I pumped gas at a station in town
owned by an amiable, but besotted old Italian guy,
Louie, who sat in a desk-chair next to the register,
feet crossed upon a case of oil,
supine as the chair would allow,
head back, gazing at the ceiling’s tin tiles
through smoke of intermittent puffs
from the butt of a Chesterfield
daintily held between finger and thumb,
elbow on arm-rest, forearm vertical as a column,
smoke curling round his semi-bald head,
ears tuned to radio opera, cranked up

Louie, lead tenor, belting bourbon-tinged arias
at full volume between drags,
warbling in Italian for all he was worth,
swathed in perfumes of grease and oil,
in splendor on the Met stage,
gazing in glory at a full house
while I pumped gas, checked oil,
and ran squeegees across windshields
waiting for the night’s curtain to drop
to a chorus of imagined bravos
bellowed from the street
amongst deafening applause

—yes, gas stations at night
can be weird sometimes,
and beautiful

—me? I liked rock and roll
and sang Roy Orbison
in my car

—Louie and I?
We got along just fine

Jim Culleny
5/7/22