I pulled my dog through summers,
tongue lolling in the heat,
ears twitching at bees
and things only he could hear.
The wagon rattled like laughter
over cracked footpaths,
and I—captain of that small red ship—
knew no world beyond
the corner store
and the shade beneath our tree.
It was enough.
Now I carry more—
keys, deadlines, debt,
the ache of wanting
what I used to have
before I learned to want.
My wagon rusts in a shed somewhere,
still red beneath the dust,
still waiting
for a child who doesn’t need more.
Ryan Stone
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