We tend to keep the old ones close,
float their teeth, feed more hay,
measure strides from manger to water,
give them everything we think they need.
These great beasts with tender hides
we’ve held between our legs that we
no longer ride, we watch ourselves
getting older. How many will we
outlive trying to get it right?
No longer dust, this musty earth
wants to steam upon the breeze—
as good a day as any to let go.
drycrikjournal 