Blue Wagon.

   Left out in the rain far too long,
   For too many seasons, now rust
   Has crept along its stenciled sides,
   Turned its white wheels brown and black,
   Left its steering rudder scoured
   Down to the metal of its base.
   It works still, complaining to the touch
   As over grass and clumps of earth
   It follows feet and frantic dogs
   Into the light of evening.

   Things are like this all the time--
   Thoughts too. They are molded out of
   Baseness and into it slyly turn,
   Neither decline nor fall, only
   Windings this way and that
   As if seeking, not surety, not truth,
   But a flume of seasoned wear.