Gasoline

The distinct, pungent smell illuminates the room.

Filling up my cutting machine,

To prepare for work and

The long hard summer days of sweat and grass.

Treading on unfamiliar territories and ravines.

Uh-oh, I spilled some.

 

My hands wet while resentment sits in.

Its strong odor rapidly consumes the shed,

Its translucent yellow color may get confused with something else.

Yet, its smell is unique to its own self.

Its immediate evaporation makes the human eye tremble.

As I put the container back on the shelf,

I count the pieces of paper that I wasted

 

I am always at the station,

Whether I am getting snacks or filling up.

The countless long trips to distant cities,

Guzzles up my gas like no other.

And although there is a plentiful amount,

It can only be obtained by paper or plastic card.