After Mass

The car won't start after Saturday Mass.
Before, it rumbled to its spot
but now we see: it's out of gas.
Mom taps my shoulder. 'Take this can,
or canister, whatever it's called,
to the Exxon down the highway.
Be careful down the icy hill--
it's dark--wish you had a lighter coat--
lighter in color, not weight, I mean.
So, walk there, take your time,
try to stay beneath the trees
and their skinny limbs, away
from the road's shoulder. Or better yet
take the side streets, the backroads,
as much as you can--because that coat--
no one will see you until you're on
their windshield. You know what?
Wave your hand as you walk,
in the air like to a song that's slow
and full of joy. That way you'll be safer.
That way people will see. Here's five bucks,
we only need a gallon or so
to get out of this lot. Let the man
there fill the can. Try not to breathe
the fumes, or get any fuel on your hands.
You hear me? Let me give you a kiss.
Take your time. We'll be waiting, just like this.'

There's a Hess, I'm surprised she doesn't know,
half a mile closer. That's where I'll go.