Filling Station
A spell, a well soaked rag
sits well and nearly out of reach unless.
A spell is when it's open dirty, but is closed.
Oil soaked around the bend my elbow is.
The smell around the bushes yes they do.
A little stunted here and there you know because.
Oil-soaked, where gas is sold, soaked coal oil rags.
Patches on the asphalt black translucency.
Pumping, pumping, pump the moving evening dress.
One cut above the knee around the tree.
The motel in the lobby by the pump the awning shows.
A woman pumping gass beneath the moon star light.
The window shows her face, it really can not be but really is.
Copyright © James Mclain | Year Posted 2022
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