Reader's Note: The following is a sonnet written after I saw my old Chevy Caprice towed away to the auto salvage yard from in front of my uptown basement apartment decades ago. I owned it less than a year, but it got me where I needed to be for a few short months. Fond memories.
They dragged it
away, hooked tight, on a truck,
its pretentious
grillwork snout in the air,
strung up,
caught like a fish run amuck
at this angler’s
taste for junk-rusted fare.
It left me,
wounded, lurching in disdain,
a glassy fish
eye cocked askance, a plea
for gentlemanly
sportsmanship in vain:
they reeled it
aft, its tail still in the sea.
I coldly watched
the rainbow tarnished scales
below the gas
tank shine from water beads
and oil, coughed
up through dry air-gaping gils,
and said,
“Behold by Triton where it bleeds.”
It is scraped by
now, metal gut from bone,
axles bare and
fish eyes turned to stone.
~William Hammett
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