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Ode to the Bag of Ice at the Gas Station
by Juniper Cole — the poem does not scroll away while you write about it.
The poem
Praise the chest freezer humming by the doorwith its one word, ICE, and its whole life's work:to keep a thing exactly what it was.
Praise the bag of it — eight pounds, three dollars,sweating already in my hand, and the sound of it,which is the sound of a small cheap avalanche.
Praise that nobody has ever once been sadabout a bag of ice. It is not for keeping.It is for the cooler, the cousin, the folding chair,the long green evening of somebody's whole July.
Praise a thing that is good only while it is going.Praise the going. Praise the cousin. Praise July.
The poet asked for: I have never written an ode before and I'm aware it's about a gas station. Is the last line one praise too many?
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