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?
Leave a reading
Readings are written by members — free, and the poem stays right here while you write.
Sign in to leave a readingNew here? Create an account — it takes a minute.