The Covered Wagon

Our encouraging mother lent
the three wire coat hangers we bent
and ragged pillowcases;
we lashed them on with shoelaces.

We packed Jim’s Bear way in back,
along with him my dog Mac;
all my dishes, our best books,
grass seedlings, seven fish hooks,
my blue-handled knife, a watch,
two dry sticks in lieu of a match,
three candy bars, water canteens,
last, from Mom, a can of beans.

We left before noon, headed west
with our covered wagon, the best
to hit the trail and brave the worst.
We were bold, proud, fit to burst.
We walked for days across the dirt
and ne’er complained about hurt
feet, hands, and sunburned faces
as we passed through unknown places.

Jim never asked why he should pull
and I should push. I was so full 
of wise knowledge that, of course,
I ne’er told him he was a horse.

At last, after a week or more,
we reached the grand Pacific shore.
Dusty, tired, noble, blessed,
we staggered to a place of rest.
We drank deep from a gold flagon;
thanked our trusty covered wagon.

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