Filling Station

Oh, but it is dirty!
The lines of the filling station,
down below the shadowed awning,
dirt in dark shed,
on the counter,
the oil upon candles,
a few unpeeled apples were wedged in
it; no need now—but even there
youth sits too near
to work enough; now that
the door is open, the brightness
sharp at the back.

One in the store, it seems outdoor;
the mirror at the door is still darker, like an evening access—a note!
Time, shift hands with a bend behind lies. A deep breath bestows here, it seems, although,
with lingering spots, that child at the store
searches for shallow joy.

The grease on the floor shows many grooves—it must grow! Here, many steps too small, remembered. Surprised! A cradle of light;
a mom, there opening a tap. After bitter slept shall take it bright.

So drop those bright shining lilies into the tank;
there must be no reward. In our hearts
there must be raised plants for breathing!

• Elizabeth Bishop