Email Poem

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Poem

Three of a kind for as long as we can
remember. Parents would shake their heads,
wonder when we’d grow up and get serious 
about serious stuff. We egged each other 
on. “Did you see that strawberry roan
in the field on the way to school?” “I’ll loan 
you my book of ranch-girl poems!” 
We loved dogs and anything with hooves, 
and words that rhymed or not, that made
sense in a westwind sort of way. 
We rode our imaginations bareback.
We never grew up. And now it’s come 
to this – no Cowboy Poetry this year 
for the old-west Wagon Train event. We’ll 
meet on Main Street anyway, to watch 
the teams come into town; stand 
on the corner, listening for hooves 
on pavement drumming to the heart. Just 
the three of us reading horse poems 
to each other and anyone who cares to listen. 
And when the first big black Percheron 
comes into view – a wagon-teamster’s Pegasus – 
we’ll be flying 17-hands-high on the horses 
of our never-grown-up dreams.

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