Bourbon Red

Meghan Iannarone

AP English

Meghan’s Barn Poem

The first thing I notice is the smell in the air.

The pungent scent of familiarity fills my nose.

The combination of straw, dust and horse

creates a scent that immediately comforts.

The smell that many find fowl, I find refreshing.

I hear the loud clamor of friendly voices and laughter.

The constant jingle of chains becomes a melody.

Cheerful whinnies warm my heart as I enter.

The sound of stomping and kicking floods my ears,

and I hear myself call his name in a sing song voice, "Chip!"

I feel his glossy coat and warm breath on my face.

A constant ach lingers in my knees and hips, but it is pushed aside.

Adrenaline rushes through my body as we sore over jumps.

I feel the crushing impact of a bad fall, and the tender bruises,

but more than that I feel the need to get back on.

I feel sore, tired, and dirty, but mostly I feel happy.

The barn has become a constant;

something that is always there. My safe haven.

The smell has become an expensive perfume.

Dirt, sweat, and mud replace makeup.

Ratty t-shirts and worn pants are high fashion,

and straw is the perfect hair accessory.

My best friend is a monstrously large horse,

one that is never moody and enjoys my singing.

This, more than anywhere else, is home.