Made For The Saddle

 

He packs his boots and riding gloves and
buries the box in a closet corner
for the day to come that's made for horses
and the men who were made for saddles.

Reins and bridle hang on a nail
in the stable where he stores his books
and tools and winter clothes and stuff
that needs a roof but no more serves.

He rode before trains and stone-paved trails
directly across the unbounded range
to any hill or canyon spring he wished.
He went without choosing a way to leave.

He goes to the room where lamp and desk
conspire in the night to aggravate
his will to ride with smug surface
and arrogant light. There his studies

try to bind him in his seat, but he
just taps his pen against the pege
and stares at the cynical candle flame
while hooves beat clouds of dreamy dust

across the open prarie of his thoughts.
He knows the land has disappeared, that time
is too swift to try that kind of distance
and mountain valleys now are painted scenes

hung up behind the city. So he packes
his boots and riding gloves, but hopes
the day may come that's safe for horses
and the men who were made for saddles.