Truckstop
JoLee Passerini
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He’s gone. Taillights blur
fast away in the hard rain.
No stars. Working here
she’s backlit, lit up,
bright as the big sign they raised
with a crane. She shines
like wet countertops,
rings the register open,
changes her dollar,
plays 24B,
her mother’s favorite song—. She’s
scattered, smothered, topped,
diced. Smile nice. (Next thing
you know, he’s a regular.
His hands warm the salt.)
A dozen other
men ate here tonight, his old
booth. Mack, Mack, Kenworth:
she gauges the lights
as the trucks pull in. She rings
up gum, cigarettes,
hot rod magazines,
sodas, snuff. Porcelain dogs.
Someplace else, she’d work
all day without once
thinking of food or dishes.
Just paper. She dreams
of days that glitter
like bent staples, but the rain
answers back at her,
the gutter drips it:
She’s not going anywhere.
Tip. Tip. Tip. Tip. Tip.
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A native of New Orleans, JoLee G. Passerini holds an MFA from the University of Alabama. She lives on Florida’s Space Coast, where she teaches writing at Eastern Florida State College. Her poems have appeared most recently in Rattle, Bellevue Literary Review, DIAGRAM, O-Dark-Thirty, Shadowplay, and Anti-Heroin Chic.
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Posted in Vignettes: A Literary Photo Album : JUL '26 and tagged in #boudin, #poetry, Poetry