A man has a tank in his yard,
Surrounded by white concrete curbing
And sitting on a bed of paving rock.
Yes, that kind of tank.
Sherman, I think, but I cannot tell you
What edition. Those things served
For more than one war. It is not like
The rusted Volkswagen or the Mustang
With grass two feet high all around,
The one someone was going to fix
And sell to his cousin, or pass on
To the nephew, or take for one last
Spin about town: the wife
Unbelted in the passenger seat,
Hair astray in the wind, believing
This was no better then than now,
With maybe the paint job gone
And a bare spot left on the lawn,
But oh the sound of that oversized engine,
The type you cant get anymore
Or get gas for, thundering,
Thud, thud, thundering.
No, a real tank.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010