BluestoneReview

Deserted Filling Station By Parks Lanier Nowadays most of them are self-service computer pumps, Twenty-four hour credit card processors attracting Moths well past midnight in the silence of the night. In the old days, someone would come out to the car, Pump the gas, and wipe the windshield with soap and water. Super service would include a look under the hood, oil check, And a quick thump on a tire or two for proper pressure. Sweet ladies like my grandmother would never grab a hose, Flip or punch a gas grade, or plunge a nozzle into a tank, Much less set it to automatic and let it gush unattended Until it sensed it was full, then click off all by itself. Ladies would wait until a gentleman attended to their needs, Did the dirty work, fouled his hands with windshield bugs Or dirty oil from a smelly rag. They would eye the greasy pants, The unshined shoes, and carefully extract from their scented purses The obligatory dollars without touching the hand that helped them. Now they must wrest the serpent hose themselves and swipe A squeegee if they want their windows clean. The pumps by the deserted filling station are rusted remnants, Reminders of mechanical chivalry long dead, mere ghosts Of how a lost world went through its motions. Grinding gears That slowly wore away with shifting of the years.

Down In My Heart By Donna Beal

Easter Sundays at Trinity Methodist the children sang I’ve got the joy joy joy where? Down in my heart believing every tomorrow ends in resurrection. Not yet aware of abiding sadness those glory voices sang loud on that church stage with the confidence of trombones and lilies a junior choir not yet familiar with grief their eyes blinded only by lights and black curtains.

73