Ben Johnson’s Horse
I wayward trotted
into the rain and wind,
gray wet-coated
past the sodden
cemetery ground.
What have we here,
an old ghost said
when he saw me
running by, isn’t that
my friend Ben Johnson’s
favorite horse?
He was right, of course.
And had I better manners,
I would have said
his friend was warm
in bed when the barn door
rattled open, such was
the storm that awful night.
But I didn’t, to my shame,
and the old ghost
wrung his pale hands
as the rhythm
of my hooves
softly died away.
October 15, 2005
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