At the exit station
there’s a graying workman
leaning on the gaspumps
and smoking a filterless cigarette

, his shovel leaning beside him
, his hand cupped against the wind.
He sometimes uses the hai
karate from the coin-op in the men’s room.

He and his two hispanic
helpers keep us from asking
for bottled water, and instead
we drink cold Coors

and return to the road.

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