I feel an obligation to visit the old garnet dump truck
pushed into retirement at the edge of the gravel pit.
I often pat its corroded hood and picture its prime,
vigorous paint and an eight-cylinder humming lullabies
nourishing a neighborhood with soil and concrete.
Now long-lived with rust disintegrating its body,
one of its headlights poke-eyed and its skin faded,
the Mack Dog hood ornament is the last flicker of life.
I stand at attention this August afternoon, as cicadas play taps,
it slips into a final slumber atop a bed of Japanese knotweed.