Teddy, the Horse Who Had Many Names

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,

again.

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.

 

But then,

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. 

 

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