Convenience Store Aquinas

7-Eleven’s a misnomer, like “mind-

body” problem. They never close. The hyphen’s

a dash of form. Sure, this mind-body’s

a machine, if you want, plowing across town

to the steak house. American Spirit. Give us

the yellow pack. No matches? This dollar

fifty-nine Santa lighter, too. Big Grab bag

of Doritos. No, the “engine” is not

separate — it’s part of the machine. Sure, paper’s

good, container for recycling. Rain’s no problem.

I eat the Doritos, smoke up — one for you?

The chips are part of my machine — 

matter inside matter — smoke fires my lungs,

gives me that slap of pleasure in my

tailbone, maybe stimulates a thought.

I’m prime matter informed by the soul.

No, I didn’t just slip the word in there:

that’s a spade — it digs through bullshit.

Lean close, under the awning, cover up,

you want a light. The mist can’t decide

if it’s rain or fog. Streetlight moons, clouds

around the neon signs. Pink as the steak

we’re heading for. The comfort of a red leather

banquette. No, your engine exists as part of

and powers its machine; separated, both are just

scrap, bunch of gears, rusty sprockets.

An unlit oven. Unbaked potatoes. Sour cream

inside a cow, chives growing mostly underground.

“Engine” is a bad analogy. I’m one thing,

not two, no intermediaries. I don’t

have a body, I am one. A hollow

one at the moment. What’ll it be?

Filet mignon? Slab of prime rib, don’t trim

the fat? Twelve oz. T-bone, two inches thick?

No, I’ll wait until after I eat for another,

but you go right ahead. Here’s a light.