by Elizabeth Bishop¹

    Oh， but it is dirty！

    ——this little filling station，

    oil-soaked， oil-permeated

    to a disturbing， over-all

    black translucency².

    Be careful with that match！

    Father wears a dirty，

    oil-soaked monkey suit

    that cuts him under the arms，

    and several quick and saucy³

    and greasy⁴ sons assist him

    （it's a family filling station），

    all quite thoroughly⁵ 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 hirsute⁶ begonia.

    Why the extraneous⁷ plant？

    Why the taboret？

    Why， oh why， the doily？

    （Embroidered⁸ in daisy stitch

    with marguerites， I think，

    and heavy with gray crochet⁹.）

    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 automobiles¹⁰.

    Somebody loves us all.

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