#1031946 added May 18, 2022 at 10:48pm Restrictions: None
Purpose The Pushcart
How do you move an empty wheelbarrow,
no luster left and empty, stored to stand on
deflated, lone wheel centered on winter ground?
Vinyl on wood handles gripped firm, fading.
Swirls of orange stains eat a purposeless tray,
hollow from another season of neglect.
I’m shaken by feelings of my own worth,
rusts a salt soul fading from gripped youth.
Idle hands could rough in a new season.
No soil or budding love in garden to move,
remembering his mud-filled pushcart,
purposed to mix a gravy of gray cement,
sliding a supply in spaces of a ravaged walk.
It never held for long. He used too much rock.
The grass grows up and around a friend
that my hands have yearned utilize.
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