…in the midst of a drive without peace, i stop for gas and overfill the tank; the gasoline devours my knuckles and it is good.  good to feel pain, to not reach for the comfort of salt or oils.  i won’t bathe again today i tell myself, not for the fourth time.  instead i will examine the silence of numbers.  chart these numbers like the angry manager i am.  i reach beestung fingers for the gas tank’s cap and the woman in the car in front of me, number seven, says aloud “i’d like to die a little for living.” my neck is twisted, alert and wishing for the median of a piano.  where is the chorus, i want to ask but instead i wash my hands.  there will one day be a mirror that i can stare into and not feel the urge to shave.