Comfort

Nothing really depends on the little red wheelbarrow,

but seeing it in the middle of the yard brings me comfort.

Like a poem I first read in a middle school textbook.

Someone had scratched out the word chickens

in the poem and wrote the word dicks above it.

The memory of reading the poem for the first time

and the discovery of the dirty word still makes me laugh.

Nothing is dependent upon the memory,

but the feeling of the laugh in the back of my throat

brings me comfort.

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