Convenience Store Aquinas

7-Eleven’s a misnomer, like “mind- body” problem. They never close. The hyphen’s a dash of form. Sure,this mind-body’s a machine, if you want, plowing across town to the steak house. American Spirit. Give us the yellow pack. No matches? This dollar fifty-nine Santa lighter, too. Big Grab bag of Doritos. No, the “engine” is not separate — it’s part of the machine. Sure, paper’s good, container for recycling. Rain’s no problem. I eat the Doritos, smoke up — one for you? The chips are part of my machine — matter inside matter — smoke fires my lungs, gives me that slap of pleasure in my tailbone, maybe stimulates a thought. I’m prime matter informed by the soul. No, I didn’t just slip the word in there: that’s a spade — it digs through bullshit. Lean close, under the awning, cover up, you want a light. The mist can’t decide if it’s rain or fog. Streetlight moons, clouds around the neon signs. Pink as the steak we’re heading for. The comfort of a red leather banquette. No, your engine exists as part of and powers its machine; separated, both are just scrap, bunch of gears, rusty sprockets. An unlit oven. Unbaked potatoes. Sour cream inside a cow, chives growing mostly underground. “Engine” is a bad analogy. I’m one thing, not two, no intermediaries. I don’t have a body, I am one. A hollow one at the moment. What’ll it be? Filet mignon? Slab of prime rib, don’t trim the fat? Twelve oz. T-bone, two inches thick? No, I’ll wait until after I eat for another, but you go right ahead. Here’s a light.