Is It Poetry
A spell, a well soaked rag
sits well and nearly out of reach unless.
A spell is when it's open dirty, but is closed.
Oil soaked around the bend the elbow is.
The smell around the bushes how they do.
A little stunted here and there you know because.
Oil-soaked, where gas is sold, soaked coal oil rags.
Patches on the asfhalt black translucency.
Pumping, pumping, pump the moving evening dress.
One cut above the knee becomes her considerably.
The motel in the lobby by the pump the awning shows.
A woman pumping gass beneeth the moon it's light.
The window shows her face, it really can not be it is.
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Comments about this poem ( Filling Station by Is It Poetry )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(1644 - 1694)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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