Dennis
With his antique vim and vigor
Dennis cuts a worthy figure.
He stands apart. He introspects.
His thoughts are veiled; quite circumspect.
The place he left, run down. Ill kept.
The treatment there? One word: inept.
He minced reluctantly into our barn.
He’s chomped with gums upon my arm.
He has a habit of getting stuck
in corners, by walls — sometimes with luck
I find him struggling, lolling with fight.
I join the galute and push with might.
I hoist that bony shopworn steed
until he rises. Gets up. Is freed.
A trying case if ever there was.
I love that horse. How come? Because.
He does his best to connect small joys
with gratitude, will and equipoise.


