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L a r r y D . T h o m a s
T h e R e d T r u c k
Stuck to its axle in mud,
wrecked beyond salvage,
it looms in a hayfield
near the Gulf, its glass
shattered, pendulous.
What was once its red
was bleached by the sun
to a dull oxblood.
Its transmission’s
locked for all time
in the gear of doom,
broken down till one
with the road to nowhere,
pedal to the metal of stillness
revving up its engine of ruin.
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