Sometimes, when the sky is dark with the storms of spring,
and the tornado watch drums its unwanted repeat over the wireless,
I think of standing with him under the metal awning of his latitude.
Maybe it will be raining,
and maybe the heavy, wet pings above will remind me about loneliness.
There, I will ask him where he’s been.
I will think of the man who sold him to us;
he who filled a livestock trailer with this one, wobbling horse;
the scar on his thickened thigh shaking in the shine of a 40 foot Featherlite
off to somewhere new,
He was just beginning to like that man.
He will back away at first,
or turn his seat to my inquiry;
the sweet trace of hay and manure will waft with his walking away.
when I push; when my talk is low and candied,
he will let me drape my arms about his neck;
he will let me touch his nose and look into his stay-away eyes.
There will be a promise in that moment;
a vow that we will watch each other age,
and to deliver cubes of sugar from my pocket
for as long as it takes.