By Lisa
Marie Harmon
It doesn't
hurt when she steps on my booted foot
And won’t
step off for at least 4 Mississippi.
Not at all….
She’s not
that heavy.
It’s no big
deal when she pulls the line through my lazily ungloved hand.
Is that a
rope burn?
Nope.
Just a
scrape. It’s nothing.
What? No. My
back is fine. This saddle only weighs 40
pounds.
I lift with
my legs,
And swing it
over.
No problem. I got it.
But sometimes, as the
cold fingers of reality poke my aging body,
I realize
there may (soon?) come a day
That has no
boots.
No ropes. No saddles.
That’s what
hurts.
National Poetry Writing Month entry, day 3.
Prompt: What Hurts
National Poetry Writing Month entry, day 3.
Prompt: What Hurts
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