My Best Friend

My arm is tired.
You see, I've been dragging around a dead horse for the past nine months.
That will make your arm tired.

I often beat that dead horse.
I beat it and beat it.
It never responds

And yet, somehow I must believe there is purpose in the beating.
Maybe I feel better because of it.
Maybe frustration is my best friend.

We now instigate meetings about the horse.
How the horse ought to be.
How the horse should be.
How I wish it were.

It gets more difficult to determine if the horse is getting better.
We take its pulse often.
Hold a mirror to its nose.

The Dr. says, at times, he see signs of improvement.
Hope is regailed.
Maybe today.

Today I decided to let go of the horse.
I still look toward the the day the horse is more stallion than anchor.
I am hopeful.

I will just walk without my hands on the reins.
I will watch and wait.