Filling Station

 Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.

Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms, 
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.


Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.


Some comic books provide
the only note of color-
of certain color.
 They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.


Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.
)

Somebody embroidered the doily.

Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe.
 Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.

Somebody loves us all.

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