Gas is cheaper on the Jersey side of the Palisades Parkway.
By law you can’t fill your own tank.
The station attendant recognizes me, asks how I am.
He knows I am headed to the hospital.
Magical thinking is a fifty/fifty proposition.   
Window rolled down, it’s all fumes.
Have a good day, he says. As always.
I saw him top off in the sideview.
Costs more. Bad for the tank. Barely room for vapors.     
Pisses me off—makes me want to bicker with my husband
the way we did before his heart failed.
Those spats were mean, but we’d shrug them off,
go for coffee, talk about TV shows and the children.   
I’m not sure a marriage without ordinary rage is viable.