I cannot be a William Carlos Williams. I cannot see the significance of a "wheel barrow," Or why it is significant enough to warrant two words from one. I cannot understand the emphasis of color, Or why it should matter whether the chickens are white or brown or red. I cannot feel the strength of need for a wheelbarrow, Or why this one in particular seems so irreplaceable.
But today brought a bicycle, rusting on the highway's edge.
Yellow bicycle, rusting Under the sun: How is it you, Once built for two, Have ended up with none?
I find my words will rollick in their own light, seriousness aside. I cannot bring myself to write such things in tranquil lines. I cannot convey such vast feelings in such small form. I cannot be a William Carlos Williams. But, just today, I can sympathize.