← v2n1, Spring 2003
Poetry · Volume 2, Number 1

Pitching Horseshoes

Some of your buddies might come around

            for a couple of beers and a game,

but most evenings, you pitched horseshoes

alone. I washed up the dishes

            or watered the garden to the thudding

sound of the horseshoe in the pit,

or the practiced ring of metal

            against metal, after the silent

arc—end over end. That last

summer you played a seamless, unscored

            game against yourself, or night

falling, or coming in the house.

You were good at it. From the porch

            I watched you become shadowless,

then featureless, until I knew

you couldn't see either, and still

            the dusk rang out, your aim that easy;

between the iron stakes you had driven