Most days the same
with minor variations. Flat blue
of the 5 a.m. kitchen. Two scoops of feed
in a plastic bucket. A small bowl
of yogurt and an hour stacking
what the ice brought down overnight.
I was happy. I slept in their bed,
I read the mysteries on their shelves.
Always something precious gone,
someone hot on the trail.
I walked in borrowed boots
across the frozen pasture and back
each morning, each morning
the feed, the spigot, the horse dragging
its bulk against the stall.
I’d walk out nights and stand
on the same trampled spot in the yard
and listen to the cold stirring
in the cheatgrass. Dull glow of a town
on the horizon. Hiss of snow.
I’d lie in their bed under three heavy
cotton blankets and worry
about the horse and the dwindling
supplies. It was a life and it was not
mine. To sleep, I imagined the great
slabs of granite buried slantwise
in the hills. To sleep, I counted
the measures ticked out
in the porcelain tub, slow drip
to keep the pipes from freezing.