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
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The Firetruck
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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