Jack

　　by Maxine Kumin

　　 How pleasant the yellow butter

　　 melting on white kernels， the meniscus

　　 of red wine that coats the insides of our goblets

　　 where we sit with sturdy friends as old as we are

　　 after shucking the garden's last Silver Queen

　　 and setting husks and stalks aside for the horses

　　 the last two of our lives， still noble to look upon：

　　 our first foal， now a bossy mare of 28

　　 which calibrates to 84 in people years

　　 and my chestnut gelding， not exactly a youngster

　　 at 22. Every year， the end of summer

　　 lazy and golden， invites grief and regret：

　　 suddenly it's 1980， winter buffets us，

　　 winds strike like cruelty out of Dickens. Somehow

　　 we have seven horses for six stalls. One of them，

　　 a big-nosed roan gelding， calm as a president's portrait

　　 lives in the rectangle that leads to the stalls. We call it

　　 the motel lobby. Wise old campaigner， he dunks his

　　 hay in the water bucket to soften it， then visits the others

　　 who hang their heads over their dutch doors. Sometimes

　　 he sprawls out flat to nap in his commodious quarters.

　　 That spring， in the bustle of grooming

　　 and riding and shoeing， I remember I let him go

　　 to a neighbor I thought was a friend， and the following

　　 fall she sold him down the river. I meant to

　　 but never did go looking for him， to buy him back

　　 and now my old guilt is flooding this twilit table

　　 my guilt is ghosting the candles that pale us to skeletons

　　 the ones we must all become in an as yet unspecified order.

　　 Oh Jack， tethered in what rough stall alone