MY ONE INCH LITTLE HORN

 

MY ONE INCH FRIEND

 

I came into life—

They said I was cute,

By barely age three

I resembled a flute.

At ten I had grown

With a curve and direction,

They promised me joy

And future affection.

And sure as they said,

When show-and-tell hit,

The pride of my youth

Was the star of it.

By fifteen it stirred

With a will of its own,

When teacher leaned forward

It rose from its throne.

A twitch and a jump,

An adolescent flip,

It bounced into action

At the flash of a slip.

By fifty years old,

With some battles long won,

The mighty old poker

Still dreamed of its fun.

It slithered in denim,

Less eager than seen—

If my wife wakes the dead,

That remains to be seen.

By eighty it slept

In hibernal repose,

Too weary, too small

For the feats of old shows.

The beast once so bold

Now withered and worn,

As small and as soft

As the day I was born.

Then laid in the earth,

Still silent and forlorn,

Till chemicals flowing

Revived my small horn.

A final stiff triumph

In coffin-bound bed—

The only time lately

It truly felt “fed.”

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