How many times have you leapt onto your own back
and grabbed yourself around the neck,
kicking and digging into your sides
with spurs the size of dinner plates?
None of this has worked. The years go by
like the cedars you love to run past.
The dust clouds erupting beneath you
have been mixing with your sweat.
You are covered with mud
and breathing hard.
Would you have it any other way?
Did you want the reins and the stable?
Did you hunger for the corn from the trough?
Burn the saddle, tear down the barn,
rip up the fences, admit
you can’t be broken, and run.