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The evening before it happened
we were in the car,
we were headed for the cinema
and I was reminded
of learning to drive.

He once caught a horse, my Dad;
a big one, with high hooves
and equine limbs that filled the air,
with nostrils flared.
All animal, all heart and blood,
all scared and furious and free.

The evening before it happened
I wanted to tell him
I'd rather drive a horse.
Then we'd have that;
something beating and breathing and true,
not a metal, man machine with wheels and
valves, that change the pitch or the sound.
Something like the shape of our eyes
(drooped, Drew – exactly the same).

Dad -
I stopped letting you save me a long time ago.
In fact, I never did.
Heroes can't catch horses
But artists, like me, like you,
we know exactly what to do.

To catch a horse
(to calm a horse-
a thing that's never felt the metal.
Hooves are like fingernails, they don't feel.)
doesn't take Super-Dad courage
or hours and years of practice;
learning the chords,
the highway code.
It comes from somewhere else.

I could never say,
“all he was for, was making me,
for reminding me
to get some driving done.”
I wanted to tell you -
but I am not a horse,
and I stopped letting you save me a long time ago.
In fact, I never did.