Four-fifty gasoline

Four dollars and fifty cents for a gallon of fuel,
The climb was steep and the timing was cruel.
A chorus of complaints fills the hallways and air,
From the nightly news to the street-side stare.

I saw the clouds gathering on the day that I bought
The heavy-duty steel that the Super Duty wrought.
An F-350 built for the dirt and the crest,
A rig for the journey, for the ultimate test.

It was never for commuting or the daily routine,
Just a vessel for vistas and the spaces between.
So the price at the pump doesn’t rattle my soul,
Since I measure by memories, not the miles on the scroll.

But three dozen gallons is a heavy intake,
And the pump handle clicks for my wallet’s own sake.
Then come the reminders, the warnings, the gloom,
Of a world growing warmer and a planet in bloom.

Yet the ledger stays balanced; the income is strong,
And the gas that I burn isn’t steady or long.
Life is for living, for the spark and the sun,
And a man needs a rig for a little bit of fun.