because cowboys don’t cry and I can’t fight back
my 4-H’er greenhorn rapture
while watching Cody foal—no white socks up front,
a blazed face breaking through the giant dew-
drop into the 10:15 a.m. sun,
two hind socks stretched side-by-side in the dirt
like reverse white-on-black exclamation marks, and
yup, it’s a filly! Because real cowboys frown
unless it’s a horse colt with four black feet,
this poem, I suppose, should tone down
its jubilation. Sorry fellers, for losing it,
but this cute little filly finds her footing
fast as you can think that single big syllable
HEART. And she stays up, pivoting
off mom’s legs, like a ring-wise prize
fighter using the corner posts and ropes,
to gather herself after taking
birth’s hard shot. It’s Memorial Day
but these tears are not for the fallen
because I’m out here cheering on new life,
no taps bugled sad in the breeze
through these balm-of-Gileads
as the suckling foal’s curled upper lip
blossoms, her gums
the pink-red rosebud-persimmon
color I think of when I think of the living,
when I think, again, of HEART. Let’s rhyme it,
for tradition’s sake, with smart.

Let’s make this poem cowboy and make up some
for the poet, who tries but just can’t quite
swallow hard enough his joy
as four more Quarterhorse quarter note
hooves step their first
Rosebud-with-Cody
sorrel stroll around our corral.

From I Am Not A Cowboy (Dry Crik Press, 1995)
© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.