To Lasso Grammar

They call these days
              The "dog days of summer"
Because dogs would lie down in the yard
              For a cat nap and never wake up.

I, too, may face the same, dark fate.
              I adjust the with Stetson on my head,
Hoping my sweat will glue the prized possession
              Safely over my carrot-colored top.

Not even the slimmest snake of a breeze
              Is here to wish me good luck.
I feel the evil heat laugh as the crowd in the arena
              Cheers ecstacially—my name's been called.

I quake in my duds as I'm handed my rope.
              "Thanks, Scotty," I whisper hoarsely
To my 12 year-young help.
              "Go get 'em," he tells me with his eyes alight.

The look from those blazing blue spheres
              And the feel of the familiar, coarse rope
In my weathered, cowboy hands
              Are all it takes for my instinct to snap back into place.

With my chin held high as the rusted door is noisily lifted up
              I squint menacingly at the fan-filled arena
And spot my goal scraping its hooves in the dirt across the ring.
              There lies the wild, unbridled mustang named Poetry.

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Jenae' Clay, age 17
2009 Finalist
Lafayette, Louisiana
Lafayette High School
Teacher: Laurie Godshall