An Ode to B. Franklin

I met a red wheel barrel
on a midday smoke walk.
His name being True Temper
He rested quietly on his tired legs.
I offered him a cigarette or a good washing
but he declined the luxuries
and asked only for the time.
It being midday, I said
“twelve, True Temper.”
His lone wheel squeaking, said,
“All the King’s dirt is want of
displacement
for the King’s cause.
I must be going.”
I, now contempt of the idleness in my hands,
put my cigarette away,
and applied myself to this word-barreling.