The Firetruck

The Firetruck

In palindromic Krape Park there was
An antique firetruck under a simple shelter
Like Tintoretto’s depiction of the manger
In the Scuola Grande di San Rocco
It sat on six flat tires
Two in front and four in back
To fill them would have been as futile
As blowing air into a dead man’s mouth
There wasn’t a day we went to the park
We didn’t visit the firetruck
On the back were coiled cracked black hoses
With bright bronze fixtures 
The big empty tank gave back
A forsaken sound when thumped
A ladder ran the length of the side
The rungs raised to a high sheen
By black boot soles and leather gloves
Clambering up onto the wooden bench seat
Into which hearts and initials had been carved
(It was always him who led her there)
We jostled to take a turn at the thin metal wheel
That turned only a little to the left
A little to the right
As if the truck had made up its mind
To head straight for the end of time
Where some say a fire will be burning