Two muddy wheels seem to be all I have

 

I was once bright

Red

 

Now I feel the deep rusted crevices indented inwardly

My wooden handles are so worn down

They could split into a million little pieces

I wait until hands devastate themselves

 

By touching me

Bright white chickens stroll past me

Their feathers pristine as white marble

They might as well be scented with

 

Chanel no5

 

While I am left to smell of old wet earth

 

And chicken feces

Left out to be cleaned by the rain

It’s entirely futile

 

Since my wheels just sink deeper and deeper

 

Into the mud

 

The water that comes down might as well be God’s spit.