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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