The evening before it happened
we were in the car,
we were headed for the cinema
and I was reminded
of learning to drive.

He once caught a horse, my Dad;
a big one, with high hooves
and equine limbs that filled the air
and nostrils flared;
all animal, all heart and blood
all scared and furious and free.

The evening before it happened
I wanted to tell him
I'd rather drive a horse
and then we'd have that;
something beating and breathing and true,
not a metal, man machine with wheels and valves -
no brass instrument I couldn't play.
Something like the shape of our eyes
(drooped, Drew – exactly the same).

I stopped letting you save me a long time ago.
In fact, I never did.
Heroes can't catch horses
But artists, like me, like you,
we know exactly what to do and how

to catch a horse
(to calm a horse-
a thing that's never felt the metal.
Hooves are like fingernails, they don't feel.)
it doesn't take Super-Dad courage
or hours and years of practice;
learning the chords,
the highway code.
It comes from somewhere else.

I never thought that all you were for
was making me,
for reminding me
to get some driving done.
I wanted to tell you -
but I am not a horse,
and I stopped letting you save me a long time ago.
In fact, I never did.

--
Visit my prose account:
~frankieofthehills

This is the way the world ends: Not with a bang but a whimper