Wheels. It Really WHEELS.

It wheels, it really wheels
and spills all over while it does,
this thing we have,
that we sent away for in the mail and we pined over together by lunch and dinner repeatedly.

But I swell at what horrid thing it has made me, to try so hard for this shaman,

As though taunted by the flock of sheep I had in my shepherd bed once when the dogs were afraid to be loose.

It sours the breakfast plates when it sits low, hung behind some shadow of a plant, and pickpockets the sunlight of morning when I try to start early. But my mind has no sour taint, the shelves below it wipe glory into my sad December face to insult the leather bottom of my summer shoe.

A handyman somewhere fixes, always.
A plumber is plumbing.
So too a widow is clutching a keepsake, and a father is peeking out of curtains to spy at a lost child of his who gets into unfamiliar and wicked automobiles with leering transients.

I clutch too as they would, but I wish only that once the warm winds came they would calm down and remain instead

I figure it is my choice.


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