With his hammer and hands
he'll bulldoze the plaster pen
corralling him from the world.
That place he squirms in,
the grazing land
between mirage and oases
that feeds the roaming heard.
His grasp on how things work
chokes the energy from his hooves.
Stomped his shoe kicking up dust,
it won’t brush off
quicker than the cobweb does.
Just let it settle...
see if it'll morph into a helper.
It's gonna take four hands
and a pry bar
to pop out rusty nails and lath.

Nice poem .

NICE