Cart Before the Horse, Horse on Sabbatical
Cart Before the Horse, Horse on Sabbatical
I’ve hitched ambition to a shopping cart
with one bad wheel—
it sings a hymn of friction
down every aisle of intention.
The horse, meanwhile,
has taken a sabbatical in Vermont,
learning breathwork,
reading thin books about oats and boundaries.
He sends postcards:
Wish you were here. Stop pushing.
But I am nothing if not industrious.
I lean into the chrome handle of progress,
stack it high with plans—
organic goals, artisanal deadlines,
a family-size box of “This Time It’s Different.”
The cart lists left. I call it “strategy.”
I have always admired momentum
even when it’s manual—
palms blistered,
chin set like a stubborn metaphor
that refuses to resolve.
Every now and then
I hear phantom hoofbeats—
just my heart,
trying to clock in.
Perhaps the order matters.
Perhaps the beast deserves the harness
before the harvest.
Perhaps I could wait
for the creature with the pulse
to return from his quiet field
and stand beside me,
breathing like a promise
that doesn’t need to be pushed.
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This poem's title is the third line from one of my earlier poems, that poem was made up of incomplete sentences, that somehow made great titles.
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