Luck in a Gas Station

I bought you this rabbit’s foot
keychain in a country gas station,
the kind that sells mini confederate flags
next to pink camo hats with a white buck
plastered right above the bill.

Bought it after I peed
in a single-seater bathroom—
lock broken, cracked toilet seat, phone
numbers Sharpie-scribbled on the walls
under miniature ads:

for fun call
best cocksucker in terrytown
naughty boy for naughtier daddy

I want fun.
I haven’t had my cock sucked in ages.
Does being thirty make me a daddy? 

A curled yellow tongue of fly tape
hung like mistletoe above the stall door.

How many generations of flies
have clung to it and witnessed
interstate intercourse?

Do the lot lizards replenish themselves
on the saccharine guts
disco ball glistening under
a single
flickering
light bulb?

I wondered what those black pearls tasted like,
wanted to stretch my tongue out,
release a reptilian roar, and
slurp, slurp slurp.

When I paid for the foot,
I knew the cashier
was silently calling me names for

not hunting down my own rabbit, and
buying the pink one.

I handed him ten bucks, collected
my change and met you back
at the car.

You hid your phone
quickly.

I bought this for you, I said,
handing the unceremoniously wrapped in
single-use plastic present,
thinking myself silly

to believe a rabbit’s foot
could save a marriage,
to think that luck
can be bought in a gas station.

I love it, you said,
and I almost allowed myself
to trust you
again.