Horse Hand

 

They kept him around

The stables, corral

And Range leading

To the hills of history.

He grew up here

New Mexico days.

Boy no longer.

His 74th year.

There had been round-ups

From the wild places.

Herds free to run

Until the chase and

Cutting off.

The rope and bridle

And saddle eventually.

All but that pinto

Griff had taken as

His own.

Took nine attempts 

To mount him.

Stable hands laughed

At the rough

And tumble.

Their yells and whoops

Only maddened the Beast.

But they had left him

To Griff, rodeo hero stuff

A long time ago.

Now he felt out of place.

Aches and pains

And slow gait.

He would oversee

The breaking to saddle

And common commands

And rein work.

The men all knew

His voice, manner and tone

Would gentle most equines.

The Owner knew this as well.

Time saved

Injuries avoided to 

Horse or Rider.

He kept Griff on.

But insisted on the

Right food, lots

Of porch time.

And little or no whiskey.

Griff had once had

That big problem.

In the hectic loose, bucking years.

*Image from film Cry Macho