Elizabeth Bishop at the Gas Station

ELIZABETH BISHOP AT THE GAS STATION

Yup, as intellectuals like to say these days,
just bein’ one of the hands, just one of
the cowpokes who actually seen real pictures
of cows (“got any chaw?”) –though no one
wants to be a gas station mechanic, but
it is true, yup, a gas station is “dirty,”
grimy like hell might be, and noisy,
clank, clang, bang, bong.
                                   But that someone
also loved there, and loves, and decorates
with a doily, and even arranges empty
oil cans to read:  esso– so– so– so–
like infinity that does actually love us all–
why should this surprise anyone?   Why
not ask if, despite all polite and decorous
manners and empty talk at fine cultured
affairs, even there perhaps love, even there
perhaps imagination lives, where someone
heretically fantasizes arriving in greasy overalls
to announce:  “Listen here!  I got this mouth harp
that knows some syntax of chaos, and a few
disorderly riffs, an’ I’m gonna let loose!
‘Cause sky is sky everywhere, and everyone
under it has somewhere to go, and
a impromptu dance and some free hullabaloo
to get there.