Some of your buddies might come around <br /> for a couple of beers and a game, <br /> but most evenings, you pitched horseshoes <br /> <br />alone. I washed up the dishes <br /> or watered the garden to the thudding <br /> sound of the horseshoe in the pit, <br /> <br />or the practiced ring of metal <br /> against metal, after the silent <br /> arc—end over end. That last <br /> <br />summer you played a seamless, unscored <br /> game against yourself, or night <br /> falling, or coming in the house. <br /> <br />You were good at it. From the porch <br /> I watched you become shadowless, <br /> then featureless, until I knew <br /> <br />you couldn't see either, and still <br /> the dusk rang out, your aim that easy; <br /> between the iron stakes you had driven <br /> <br />into the hard earth yourself, you paced <br /> back and forth as if there were a decision <br /> to make, and you were the one to make it<br /><br />Claudia Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pitching-horseshoes/
