Father's Day
		The stallion reared and pawed the air,
		with foaming mouth and cotton hair,
		and I climbed up and grabbed his mane
		with tiny fists-I loved the game.
		He wheeled and kicked but I held tight
		and squeezed my knees with all my might,
		a bit afraid of all his moves
		and fearful of his flying hooves.
		I laughed and screamed and gave his flanks
		a burst of quickly issued spanks
		from walk to canter then wild run
		and back until the ride was done.
		The whinny of my favorite horse
		is only memory, but a force
		that guides my rides on different trails
		through shifting sands and grueling gales.
		And now that Dad is old and slow,
		and all the rooms have grown so small,
		I guess he'll have to bloat and blow
		until the grandkids find his stall.