The Station Attendants Poem by J. R. Ryan

Griffeth mans the station
Standing slumped and still
I believe he is at peace,
But I almost think he's ill.

He sings opera in the cooler.
He fell in love with the mop.
He talks to the trash
And he's got a crooked walk.

I don't know if he's lost
Don't know if he's sane.
I don't know if all he's saying
Computes in my brain.

I chuckle every day
As I'm standing slumped and still.
The men who man the station
Are really very ill.

The big, fat eating ladies
Don't like us scrawny lads
Poking fun at open wounds
They're mad as we are sad.
They eat up all the hotdogs,
No donut left for us
They have a dozen mouths to feed
I think some legs have come uncrossed.

Griffeth mumbles something
About a fill-up or a Phillip
The patron doesn't get it
Yet I am cracking up!

I chuckle through my anguish.
I chuckle as I'm free.
I chuckle as I laugh
At the world that laughs at me.

I man the filling station.
You buy snacks and drinks and gum.
I am no one of a consequence,
I could be dead and gone.

I haunt such hallowed halls
That voice you left behind
I rattle chains and moan
I rattle shackles in your mind

Griffeth, he's a ghost!
To all the living wrought with pain
Do you know where you are going to?
Creeping towards insane...