a blue velvet scrunchie gathers silky locks,
tiny sterling silver earrings line the lips of her ears,
a faded sunburn, just peeled, peeks out from behind
her too-small white tank top and lacy pink bra.
she yells like ares when her battlestation—
that small little pump, there, on the end—
is overtaken by an overzealous paris, in
his rust-red pickup, who rudely comments back.
the lines on her face show from beneath the concealer
and the kindly young menelaus from the next pump over
hurls verbal spears at paris and wins the heart of the
single, hard-working mother at the trojan gas station.