Maybe so much does depend
on a red wheelbarrow
beside the white chickens
but I’d rather not spend an hour discussing it.
If there is beauty in simplicity,
why are we talking so much?
a slow roasted poem
with imagery that falls off the bone, and if
I can taste the decadent emotion of
the words, I’ll give
my compliments to the chef,
whoever they may be.
If you turn up your nose at my favorite dishes
no critic has rated them five stars,
so be it.
Let other people dictate your desires.
what exactly depends on
a red wheelbarrow.
I’ll be eating the chickens.