Territory Folks

Click on the photo for a larger image

After mother remarried, her new husband
shot the horse that had returned
with an empty saddle.

It hadn’t let anyone but me ride it since.
You couldn’t slam a door or fire a gun,
it would kick down the stalls.

We’d put it outside during thunderstorms.
I’d hear a frantic drumroll of hooves
circling the pasture,

& something heavy — the Sunday roast — scraping
across a table. I mean, the way it sounds
from underneath,

crouching among the chairs, hungry,
keeping a wary eye on those tooled
leather boots.

3 Replies to “Territory Folks”

  1. I love the fairy tale feel of this poem, Dave. And I remember the image. The hand prints remind me so much of ancient cave art, and recent questions wondering if it was grafitti back then, as here.

  2. Thanks, M-L. I figured readers would remember that picture, but with poetry I do feel that an image helps draw people in, so I may be doing a bit more recycling in the coming days. (But I’ll be uploading new photos to my Flickr page, as well.)

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