It Poured

My windshield wipers are doing the only thing they'll ever do as I pull into whatever gas station has the lowest prices lately, 
because that comes closest to the dream politicians send people to die for.

Or more likely
because that comes closest to the monthly budget.

The early morning weatherman says something over the radio like, "God's tears are pouring down here in Happy Valley"

And I wonder just how much orange juice you have to drink 
over a lifetime 
to convince yourself to wake up 
and say shit like that every weekday.

I pour the gas, 
ready to use it for another late-night canyon drive that's supposed to make me feel.

Or something.

Then I walk in the gas station 
buy a bottle of orange juice to pour down my throat.

Wondering how many of these I'll need 
to convince myself to wake up 

every weekday morning.