The Saddle I Spent Seven Years In

I picked you up today,
old friend;
you’ve been quite patient,
waiting it out
for me to find a partner
and need you again.
I pulled you from under the grain bags
and the dried and matted, worn-out pads
piled in the cobwebby corner,
ready to bring you home
clean you up
and hopefully put you to use
if I play tonight just right.
Eight years, and you still
fit snug to my hip,
leaving patches of past love’s hair
stuck to my jeans.
Mold and dust are hiding
the shine of your black leather
and the imprints of my thighs.
You still smell comfortable,
of sweat clinging to girth
and breast.
You used to ride for hours
(8 a day, to be precise),
but let’s face it—
you’ve not had a good ride
in at least as long as I have;
It’s time we look for a new mount.

**

I Couldn’t Have Married You

You never saw what was so special about cast iron,
couldn’t taste the generations of seasoning
seared, coating the skillet
in the comfort of cornbread or cabbage.
You couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t throw out
perfectly good bacon grease,
poured in my grandmother’s tin cup
tucked in the back of the fridge.