Midnight madness marks you a starving man,

Ever longing for the starry composition of a soda

Or the kaleidoscope of sugar that greets your tired eyes.

Here stands the messiah to your mind’s mutiny,

Hand holding up a haggard face, worn by the fumes,

You’d meet them at the end of worlds, those gallant gas station cashiers.

Posted everywhere and nowhere, they remain anchored,

And they may seem a mere pitstop, but even gravity submits to their pull.

Raise a glass to the gas station cashiers,

who make homes in the enumeration of lottery tickets.

Taming the roar of the highway, they make way for the music

Of outdated radios and the sound of nectared nostalgia.

Place your faith in the gas station cashier,

Who have shaken hands with withered old time.

-Sophie Linkous ’20

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