We asked your opinion and
you said ‘It depends’,
And we both echoed ‘On the red wheelbarrow’,
laughed, exchanging knowing smiles.
You were perplexed by yet
another oddity of adults,
pissed, not in on the joke,
locked out across the dinner table by an age.
Your mom being weird,
reciting poetry or whatever you call it:
another artifact of the cryptic,
illusive world you seek to unearth.
How much you already know about
the world because you know:
there is much to discover,
And that it all depends.
Text here of The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams