In his heyday children climbed

onto his back after Dad threw on an old blanket

 

hands clutching his mane as he stepped

slowly through the neglected pasture

 

all memories now as he searches out

first grass from last year’s brown detritus

 

they come to the fence, now the

two of them, man and girl

 

she of the apple and carrots

that she feeds him from her hand

 

he of the old washpan tied to the fence

filled with oats and sorghum

 

and later flakes of fresh alfalfa forked

over that he’s fed on over the winter

 

No one else ever comes to where he’s been

left abandoned in this pasture

 

So he dreams of mustangs, anticipates mornings

and evenings, the man banging on the pan

 

to get his attention, this being almost deaf

and blind in one eye the price

 

Of getting old, owning those old memories

but the man and girl making new ones.