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.