Gas Station Rest Room

The present tense   

is the body’s past tense   

here; hence   

the ghost sludge of hands   

on the now gray strip

of towel hanging limp

from the jammed dispenser;

hence the mirror   

squinting through grime   

at grime, and the worn-

to-a-sliver of soiled soap   

on the soiled sink.

The streaked bowl,

the sticky toilet seat, air

claustral with stink—

all residues and traces

of the ancestral   

spirit of body free

of spirit—hence,

behind the station,

at the back end of the store,

hidden away

and dimly lit

this cramped and   

solitary carnival   

inversion—Paul

becoming Saul   

becoming scents

anonymous   

and animal; hence,   

over the insides   

of the lockless stall

the cave-like

scribblings and glyphs   

declaring unto all

who come to it

in time: “heaven   

is here at hand

and dark, and hell   

is odorless; hell

is bright and clean.”