RICHARD JORDAN is a Ph.D. mathematician and is also a poet. He resides in Virginia, where by day, he works on the mathematical modeling and analysis of the spread of infectious diseases, and by night, he tries his best not to contract any such diseases. His poems have appeared in over a dozen print and online magazines.

                                                               yard sale


That rocking horse behind the tool shed was constructed by hand during the depression by Grandpa Sullivan for Uncle Carl, who had always longed for a real live pony. Nevertheless, Carl warmed up to it in time, and spent countless hours rocking to and fro, until one day he realized that his calling was to develop biceps and love women. That's when it was passed on to Aunt Carolyn, who painted it chestnut brown, just like the stallion she had seen in a John Wayne movie.

Carolyn gave it to Cousin Freddie as a gift on his fifth birthday.  Freddie and I used to take turns pretending to be cowboys, decked out in spurs and ten gallon hats, chomping on candy cigarettes (remember those?).

Years later, Freddie did prove himself worthy of  Marlboro Man status, as a corporal in the Army over in 'Nam. He returned a hero, Purple Heart and all. A few days after his welcome home parade, he blew his brains out with a  handgun he'd lifted from a rotting Vietnamese corpse.

And that's how I inherited this family heirloom. It must be an antique by now. But I have no use for that old rocking horse, since my only child has grown and moved away, and will never have kids of his own. He has other preferences, know what I mean?

It's all yours if you want it.  Believe me, they don't make them like that anymore.

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© 2002 Richard Jordan