A Fenced Horse
Once I was like a fenced horse just waiting
to be turned out. Waiting to shun the presence
of poetry, to roam the sun laden hills and gullies
with a million mustangs, all wild and wicked,
running neck and neck, our hooves kicking up
foolishness and selfish pleasures everywhere.
But that was a long time ago, and though I have
in my poetic pleasures, many times, roamed
the sun laden hills and gullies with a million
mustangs, all wild and wicked, I still wait
to be turned out.
If you've any comments on
this poem, J.D.
Heskin would be pleased to hear from you.