“Somebody waters the plant,
            or oils it, maybe. . . .”
                                         — Elizabeth Bishop, Filling Station

 
In a long row of pots along the side of the station,
     Blooms the garden of the garage’s mechanic.

Out of the oil and the grime, the stains and the rust,
     On the island of Martha’s Vineyard, sail his galleons

Of summer sunflowers, his sloops of squash blossoms,
     Moored against a white fence. Two painted metal

Chickens strut past grinning pumpkins and flattened tires,
     Past smiling customers with broken cars,

Where in a realm of enchantment,
     almost everything can be fixed.