Adios, Horses

The way the thing screamed,the way it snorted in the barn, tossed its head and slung hot spit,bucked, reared, kicked at the stall—hey, forget Trigger,forget Silver, Champion, Topper, Scout.

My old man and the folks he worked forthought a pony would hook me on horses, and someday, like him,I'd parade them in showsand line their tack rooms with ribbons and trophies.

Sure I loved the notion, the romanceof the genuine autographed Gene Autry saddle, the silver bit,the embossed bridle.          I loved those cowboy guitarsand the sound of hooves clomping off toward the sunset.

But when my old man dragged that pony through the pasture,when he dragged that bucking pony, snarlingand jerking at the bit, well . . .                                He held the bridleand swung me into the saddle,

and the pony shied and danced. It jitterbugged, dipped,and my old man jerked the bit,handed me the reinsand pushed away.

Then adios, Diablo. Adios, Loco.Oh, Cisco! Oh, Pancho!