by abubhaji

“You’re the workhorse of the department,” he said.
Sean’s the
ambassador. He said it with a smile, like it was a good thing;
it made absolute sense, to me,
the workhorse.
He said it back before the buyout, soon before he quit and Sean
was promoted. At the time, it made perfect sense,
to me the departmental workhorse.
On instinct,
I continued to plow, with
confidence and zeal, what-
ever field they’d offer me.
A work order, two, a project, three.
When another horse
left the stable, willingly,
I plowed its field too.
All along, all a long, it made perfect sense to me,
how could it not, it’s in my blood.
Mud in my hooves didn’t slow me
Bad news didn’t stop me
Stormy weather, wind, and hail didn’t stall me;
And when the barn burned down,
that didn’t stall me either.
For a workhorse is a remarkable force
to be reckoned;
they can plow through fields surely,
manage crews, massage contracts, make you money
the good ones can plow through days
and nights, right through the weeks, the seasons,
straight on through their prime.
And in the end, it still makes perfect sense, it is what it is, it’s
what they’re meant to do;
to work, to tend, to plow.
as I lay awake
waiting for
tomorrow’s toil
I allow my mind to drift
with the sweet thought,
that maybe, just maybe
in my next life
will call me