A Filling Station Revisited

A reworking I did of a poem titled "Filling Station" by Elizabeth Bishop.

The dirt caked, tiny, filling station.

Saturated by the oils of ages past

Casting an everlasting sheen over-all.

A tangible blackness

Which calls out to patrons:

“Light a match.”

 

A Father I’ll never relate to

Or measure up to his standards

Wears oil-soaked coveralls.

Just like him: greasy carbon copies,

Sons assist him with the family business:

Dirty inside and out.

 

They are every bit a part of the station;

Along with the cement porch,

The crushed wickerwork married to the grease.

On one wicker sofa, a dog lay

Out of place yet very much at home.

 

Age old comic books offer contrast

To this blackened landscape.

They lie upon a doily,

None the worse for wear.

Beside them something living,

Not produced by man’s hand.

A big, hirsute begonia.

 

But how does it live,

Surrounded by filth?

A filth that consumes even light

Before it can enter through the window pane?

Yet that lone doily

Crocheted by grandmother’s hand

Suggests that a force exists behind the scenes.

A force which has given life:

To fathers, sons…

 

In this desolate landscape

A begonia can live here

Because someone waters it.

With care, someone has arranged

Rows of cans which whisper:

“Esso-so-so-so”

To whatever is living, or not.

That’s when it dawns on me:

Somebody loves us all.