Filling Station Poem by James McLain

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.