It’s an odd thing (thing?)
that the poet seeks the eternal
in the concrete, captured by the red
wheelbarrow – at least by the barrow –
redness being too abstract, a shake
in the immaterial waves, just
a gloss on the true rooted thingness.
A barrow has no smell of money,
no hint of passion and no status:
it beautifully serves the purpose
of our worldly poet’s reality.
Hard to say what it is that depends
on the wheelbarrow – no mansplaiining
is available; in fact it seems
to be purposefully opposite,
chosen as one western hand clapping.