The wheel spins out
from a high countered hub;
spokes of Bruce, and Larry,
of Char, and Ben, and other folk
that turn the rim
filling needs, go round and round:
straw bales, drill bits,
bolts to hold a broken blade,
kerosene, clothes line,
paint and Orvus soap.
Bags in twenty-five or fifty pounds
fill pick-up trucks then empty feeders,
mineral licks, onion sets,
spring chicks, and seed potatoes,
four or six pak summer annuals,
channel locks, and fresh eggs.
Gold turns white turns green turns gold –
this wheel plants gardens and farms
that may feed a wide world
or make tomato soup on Eighth Street.
Turning, turning like round steel
on rumbling tracks that rocks
this packed tower, full
to rusted rafters, of all that binds
puzzle pieces of place into a town.
January 2020
WandeRoseD 