A stray poem followed me to the barn
this morning, yipping and yapping
at my heels, the poor thing, malnourished,
and automatically I began to imagine
how it'd arrived. Probably some dark
prose-ish vehicle, headlamps off,
cruising slowly in the middle of the night,
one of those tinted-glass, low-rider jobs;
six people inside with a half-assed
plot. You know the type. And me,

heart big as a blanket and warm, so I
whistle. I say, come here little poem,
and it pricks its ears, one lip resting
on an inquisitive tooth, mid-yap, eyes sharp;
while my mind spins a name. Something
clever, something intense. All the hour,
pitching hay, scooping cattle cubes,
I grapple for the name, and finally it comes
loping and laughing out of my left brain: Endeavor.
Oh! It's perfect, I think, here little Endeavor,
here, you sweet, forever friend. Happily,
I turn back toward the house, proud
of my new companion, sure
of it's love and loyalty,

and it bites me in the pants.