Yellow light spilling off
a Shell beside the highway
stops all at once, 2-3 paces from the door —
hits a wall of rural dark.
We pass it, a buck ten, in a moment
our headlights firm and fixed.
How many Shells line the roads,
one after another,
open at 4:00 AM? On Christmas Eve?
Someone is always awake inside.
Someone is always awake.
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