January 16, 2024

the artist-in-residence at the Arco station

is what she calls herself, silently, as she slows to the pump, shuts off
the engine, pulls the lever to open the latch. It’s a weekday morning
and snow is coming. The lanes are full of drivers topping off their tanks. 
For a moment, as the fuel surges into her car, she notices the word “nude”
in “unleaded,” the lean silhouette of the attendant, the cornflower hue
of the logo on the ice machine, how she can see the lineup of scratch-offs
all the way from here. In the brief cocoon under the awning, she takes up
space, spreads the canvas to its far edges, imagines on the outskirts 
a small crowd gathering to watch her work. There is no brush, no paint, 
but the palette is here full-fledged, and so is she, lifting her hands to the canvas.