When it gets to the point that every flake of mica in the asphalt 
looks like a poem, and each pothole looks like a metaphor,
it’s time to pull back on the reins and calm that overheated horse. 
Whoa, Nellie. Time to head for the stable,
chow down on some one-syllable words.

You’ve put in some hard tracking,
some fine sure-footed intelligence back on the trail,
and it’s true that anything can be a poem
and you could be headed in an interesting direction
despite all evidence to the contrary,
but seems like it’s time to give it a break.

’Cause from the looks of things, there’s no way to wring one more drop
of serious work out of this old paint for the day.

And fresh clichés are always lined up at the starting gate,
skittery nags, ready to breeze down the field 
with their thundering hoof-beats and all.
You don’t want to mix with that crowd.

So it’s time to call it a day, hang up your hooves,
put down that pen, and let those frantically chattering aspens
talk to themselves for awhile.