The sound of an old town left to a man in his sardine scent.

    His souvenir racks squeak, the sound of the old cooler humming in the back.

He sits at the front with the radio fuzzing
           because the power lines have been stripped
of this gas station town.

A cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Eyelashes twitching. 

The soles of his shoes peeling back at his toes,
    Which he rests on the edge of the counter.
The flickering lotto sign in the window.
The flat bottle of coke lying on the newspaper rack
       which hasn’t been restocked

                  since 1968.
But the Budweiser sign is still back there,
                      next to the Marlboro. 
They are both still humming.
  Still buzzing.

         Still buzzing.