|Poetry of Issue #6 Page 16|
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Shabby Old Truck
Although the lobsterman’s shabby old truck won’t take anyone anywhere, the surviving yellow paint goes well with the red-brown rust, and the aggressive grill looks eager as a shark trailing a trawler. The lobsterman doesn’t worry about sharks. He worries about the price of lobster in Boston and New York and the dwindling catch; he worries that his children will renounce their genders and that property tax will dismember him.
Encouraged by his despair, the rich move in, plowing through his property with pants on fire and bug-eyes bleeding golden tears. Although the wall of lobster traps can’t stop them, the rusty old truck roars to life, snapping its grill. The rich neither waver nor retreat. They stand firm, swinging their heavy jowls. The truck lurches forward. After the sneer of exhaust dissipates, only an empty checkbook remains, flapping in the driveway like a run-over squirrel.