Riding High Poem by Yorktown Disciple

My friend spoke with a cadence
that sounded like horse breath.

When it snowed, we used to
shovel each other's devotion.

On rainy days we soaked our
indentured notes of atonement.

It wasn't because of our short
sighted history of molten bias.

No, it was because we ached
to straighten out inept cognition.

We strained to do this without
shoveling snow-quenching sonants.

We wanted to travel together and
not fight barriers of callowness.

But as the years passed we just
drifted into mawkish weather patterns.

We became cloven-hoofed astronauts,
unwilling to dismount our space saddles.

Now, we circle the earth endlessly,
while praying for more horse breath.