Oh, you wanted mechanics of a poem. How about this:
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.
--Elizabeth Bishop |
