This morning I saw
on Lexington Road
on the bank of a stream
by a well-manicured house
rotting into the ground under a pile of brush.
We none of us can maintain our worlds
keep them in good repair
and proper order. All decays.
I am on Thoreau's railbed, I think.
And here is a graveyard
on and on.
Lives that came and went.
But produced, evidently, headstone-carvers
who survived them.
Someone made the wheelbarrow new, once.
So what I crave to know
is someone somewhere building a wheelbarrow today?
Will someone again build a wheelbarrow tomorrow?