Diesel or Polo Mints

Tattered foil strewn wildly on cheap quasi-leather mats.
A chalky residue stains the fabric.
The window winds down effortlessly, revealing  a rusted metal phallus,
resting awkwardly, on its snug, secure podium.

The soles of the feet step on to the murky pitch-black tarmac.
I grab the heavy nozzle, drawing it towards the car's watering hole, 
an intercourse of machinery and energy.
The glugging commences, bringing a rare flash of presence.

Standing self-consciously, a workman with thickened black hands provides a welcome focal point.
He'd have been a much better man for the job!

The soothing glugging liquid noise quietens. The smell is pungent.
A toxic beauty scraping the nasal canal.
Footering in the tight jeans pocket, I retrieve a mint of Arctic freshness.
A timely temperance.

I return to the car for a chugging prayer, drowning out the incoherent country drawls around me.
The sinuses are clearing, like diminishing floodwater from a cavern.
Perhaps the recession has been too quick though, my temples hurt, like tender splints.
But I won't fooled by wrong awareness, it's not the diesel or polo mints.