The Last Exit Before Hell

We were on a ski trip
smoking doobies
listening to tunes
tearing across Kansas
maybe already Colorado by then
but no where near the mountains

in a blizzard
at three in the morning
where only trucks
and us
were out,
because with the wind and all
it was probably
40 maybe 50 below,
and if you ended the trip
in the ditch
chances were pretty good
you'd die.

When the gage went down towards empty,
and we passed the exit with the Sinclair,
it didn't seem like any big deal,
so we lit another joint
and waited for the next town.

There ain't no next towns
at three in the morning
in that blizzard,
at least not just down the road,

and on fumes and nerves
at 40 mph
and the red fuel light on the dash lit,
we finally limped
into the last place to stop
between here and hell.

The pumps were froze up and brittle,
you couldn't touch anything
with bare skin,
and it took a screw driver
to get the gas lid flipped open,

after which
I stood there shocked and shivering
in the coldest cold I have ever felt

staring at the cattle truck
fueling up
the next row over,
packed full on both levels,

deathly
utterly
quiet,

there at the last place before hell
in western Kansas,
or maybe already Colorado
by then.