Sydney Davis
On the wall in the sitting room,
in a gallery of memories,
a faded gray gas station hangs.
Hear the muffled music floating
from the radios in the dashboards,
through the black and white photograph.
Two men stand by pumping gasoline,
wearing hats as if officers.
Topping off neighbors and strangers
chorus with a clank of customers’ change.
The sing-song of the cars scolding,
tires skidding and plates unlatching,
people thanking and change in palm,
create a symphony of the rush, leisure,
and life in 1960s Southern Illinois.