Wheelbarrow Williams

Insert wheelbarrow and chickens here
in the back-right corner of your mind,
behind the mop closet,
then carry your little barnyard
for fifteen years and
pull it out for inspection
every twenty eight minutes.

It’s not that you’re without talent,
Mr. Williams, poor soul, recipient of
your parents’ poor planning,
William Williams, in fact perhaps the opposite;
perhaps you earned your place, actually,
by virtue, with a small does of luck,
but that’s immaterial –
doesn’t matter a lick – because your work,
the first verse I ever memorized,
travels with me in memory of
a far greater battle.

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Poetry, photos, musing

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