[I am loading piles of cardboard into my car. "You moving?" people ask. I am recycling.
Eyes roll. "She's one of those."]
[I clean the soot off the gas pumps. We call it road dust. I inhale the traffic of the street.]
["Ya'll are killing me with these gas prices," she whined, as she stomped out the door and into the seat of her brand new Hummer.]
[A woman goes to the restroom while her gas is pumping. The automatic shutoff fails. A river of gasoline flows down the hill.]
[Two men pull over to the shoulder in a cleaning van. We watch as black sludge gushes down the sewer drain.]
[People often toss their receipts from the gas pumps to the wind. On sunny days I watch them dance through the air like bright white feathers gliding silently to the ground.]
[Three vultures circle the sky above us. Four gas stations and one busy interstate beneath them.
Whose death do they smell?]
