Wheelbarrow

I remember

hammer, wrench, and bones

pulling a pneumatic wheel

from a cavernous metal shell

 

as Superman and I stood

on a wooden plate of sunlight—

he died a dozen years later;

took me a year to hear

 

my own voice

as it gushed rainbows

until The Ripe

complained about color saturation.

 

"We want cold truth," they said.

"Why must it be cold?" I asked.

"Entropy, young one," they said.

They told the divine to fuck off.

 

Now Superman, who I once saw

dive over a badminton net,

sketches memory in reverence

of old Georgia and Appalachia

 

while I blend a warm brew

with cream and ice

and color just enough

to show I'm not dead.