Angie the trainer looks like she came from a John Ford flick.
She keeps the Horspitality House humming
With saddle racks and spur straps, curry combs, hoof picks,
Knows in lunging how to make them walk enough to think.
She’s the liaison between horse and owner,
Explains the one to the other, and vice versa
And she rides, girl does she ride, for long evening stretches
In the empty arena with no one watching but the mustangs ...
But Jessie the Mammoth Ass in her cloud boot
Spooks even her, though she’s as sweet as rhubarb pie
At least compared to the mules, obstinate like horses
But with kind donkey eyes as they hold down the fort,
The two jacks with greying haircoats and Franny the pony mule.
They're nervous around humans, because they only know
Themselves, and they fear how large they are
And maybe how long they appear of ear.
But they don't push themselves forward like they matter,
Like to themselves they are invisible. They don't have
The wherewithal to see themselves as the Gods
They so clearly are. They haven't done the self-validation piece
And so they don't realize it's all for them. They would love
A run of the place, Donut and Arrow, but they won't bray for it,
Such sounds are reserved for complaint about the outside world,
The flies, the ointments, the lack of understanding.
Angie's committed to work on this. It goes with the job,
To see the eccentrics, and offer a reward
For any truly perceived value. I, for one, am in awe,
From my pinhole a little further up the hill, at how gentle
They both are, how gentle the process is, as if I should trust every flow
I can't guarantee an arrival for. Everything that pops up as a problem,
Like donkey ears, only exists to be smoothed away
As Angie, miraculously, is brushing now.
