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.