There sits a wagon wheel,
its purpose is no more.
For the wagon now departed,
the wheel has not a chore.

Once it rotated freely,
upon an axial shaft.
Used to carry folks and belongings,
serving as a prairie craft.

But time did take its toll,
upon the wooden frame.
Soon it fed the cooking fires,
this ship without a name.

Now one wheel sits in reverence,
to the wagon once given support.
This is the rhyme of a lonely wheel,
in verse this humble poet report.

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