The Grocer’s Buggy: ‘a lyric, a time, a crusade, a line, a minute, a friend, a road without end’ – zwan

down by the great North Sea
where I, alone, did chance to be
I shuffled in the windblown sand

off the shore, the midst didst blow
the sand, in wind, became my foe
but there was still poetry to the land

the ground was pure and silky smooth
save the pebbles that be unmoved
as the wind didst blow the place about

I crept up to the rising tide
and knew, in Nature, I could confide
Until a grocer buggy began to cast some doubt

in the waves and out of place
the grocer’s buggy gave a taste
of a story no one cared to hear:

the rusted cart, buried low
had once been new and on-the-go
holding condiments and meat, and even beer

I thought of those who had strolled
the buggy thru…but Manifold
had been this buggy’s rightful destiny

perhaps retired to a bum
stolen and used as some drum
that warmed all those who could not pay for tea

yet, had it held some other things?
a coat, a hat, bum-belongings?
or had it simply longed to let loose?

for life as a buggy could be a pain
always carrying with no gain
and for a buggy, there is nairy a noose

the wind still blew with fits of rage
the buggy looked just like a cage
for anything my imagination could partake

so happy was I that I had found
a pointless buggy in the ground
…that all the beauty all around did make

me, who’d been so all-alone
found a friend, I’d call my own
who, too, had been that day so castaway

Buggy and I, not different were we
alike in mind; in poetry
so written together only just for the day

whatever path this buggy took
it would not be to help a cook
as its intentions may have meant to be

But as I stood and coyly smiled
that paths had crossed, so undefiled
that this buggy here had helped little old, poor me

…this buggy and I….
…down by the great North Sea.

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