Texaco Tumbleweed

Texaco drifts through the rusted pumps’ glow,
A spectral form flickering low.
The neon sign hums
With vintage Route sums,
And the Paragould station’s on show.

She misfiled a 1950s receipt
As “modern artifact”—what a feat
Of temporal drift.
The decades would shift,
And the filing was never complete.

She haunted a pump with Route ballads,
Stalling refueling—just salads
Of spectral nostalgia.
The gas pump regalia
Swayed in the vintage-lit palace.

“Drift on, fuel forever,” she sighs
Through the crumbling station that lies
On the National Register.
Each memory’s visitor
Fades under Paragould skies.

The faded receipts she preserves
Are stories that nobody serves
At the counter no more.
Each traveler’s lore
Filed in dust that the tumbleweed swerves.

The jukeboxes hummed long ago—
She archives their spectral echo.
Each song is a ghost,
Each traveler a host,
And the pumps remember the show.

Her spectral glow maintains each sign—
The neon still flickers in line
With the vintage aesthetic,
A ghost-pump pathetic
And beautiful. Perfectly fine.

She stamps dates that never existed
On receipts that time had delisted.
Each artifact aged
In a spectral stage,
And the history: lovingly twistèd.

So if tumbleweeds roll through the lot
And the neon flickers with rot,
That’s Texaco’s reign:
Where the vintage remains,
And the drifting is all that she’s got.