The First Time
The first time, and about time, you shoe a horse,
You approach with feelings of misgiving, of trepidation,
Of cocksureness, and a justifiable sense of naiveté.
The horse, used to be shod, shares none of this.
When the job is half done you wonder at the fuss,
Why, it ain't half so hard as they make out—
Then as quickly regret your hubris as you feel
The weight of that horse, and buckle down to it.
As sure as sure can be, it happens that the horse
Grows weary of his three-legged stance, shifts its weight,
And you misfire, hammering a nail through the hoof
Into your middle finger, hitting bone; but in the end,
With a kink in your back and your finger wrapped
In a dirty bandana, you gather your tools, watch
Your horse trot off to pasture, a little tender of foot,
and allow–no, it ain't half so bad as they make out.
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2017-12-28 at 16:43
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