The airy tanks are dry. My hands draw back. I often sigh still 10 for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom of the fish and reptile. One morning last March, I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized fence on the Boston Common . Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting 15 as the cropped up tons of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage .
Parking spaces luxuriate like civic sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone 30 in the city s throat. Its Colonel is as lean as a compass-needle. He is out of bounds now. The ditch is nearer. Space is nearer.