The airy tanks are dry. My hand draws back. I often sigh still 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 as they 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 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.