So Much

There is a poet taking a nap lying

on a red wheelbarrow. Of course

the poet is an adult and too big to

fit inside a red wheelbarrow so the

feet and arms are dangling outside

the red wheelbarrow but none the

less a red wheelbarrow is the best

place for a poet to take a nap in the

middle of a perfectly good afternoon.

Place a face and a name to the poet.

Let’s say the poet is Bukowski and he

has a black pussy cat curled up on his

stomach purring like a black pussy cat

should. Bukowski strokes the black

pussy cat’s head and mumbles something

about that time he was delivering the mail

and you want to hear the rest but he

is after all taking a nap and the black cat

is purring and flies are circling something

in the distance and the wrenching smell

makes it to your nostrils as the breeze

circles the red wheelbarrow and then

Dickinson is in the red wheelbarrow

looking daintily straight at the sun because

she is not afraid of pain as her black

heavy dress dangles over the red wheelbarrow

and the dust settles on the tips of her

black pointy shoes. The black cat

is now a parakeet in a tiny bird cage

she holds over her heart. The parakeet

tweets and flutters in the tiny cage. Dickinson

shushes the parakeet with a lullaby which only

makes the tweets louder and louder and louder

as a cloud of cigarette smoke sails off into the

distance because now Sexton is in the red

wheelbarrow. She is wearing the perfect

little black dress and her manicured nails

circle around her pearls, her long legs

are crossed and hanging out the red wheelbarrow

as she rubs them against each other because

that feels good and she has a poem stuck

between her thighs that needs

to be released. Once the poem is climaxed

she mutters, what a piece of shit and lights

another cigarette and places a hand over

her left breast as if she is about to say

an anthem but instead she cups it hard

because she likes it as you watch her

you then realize why Williams said

that “so much depends on a red wheel barrow”.

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