Horse Poem

There’s a pile of horseshit
on my lawn, from Cosmo.

William is Amish, comes to
use our phone. He’s friendly,


has a goofy sense of humor,
cracks jokes about his culture.


I feed his horse green grass,
talk softly, scratch his cheeks,


look into his dissociated eyes
partially covered by blinders.


I live in a house known to the
locals as a “witch house,” but


folks know the rural art of
how to mind one’s business.


Anyway, of course the horse
is beautiful and would rather


be doing anything else than
pulling cheerful men around


on errands, wearing leather
from another beast of burden.


Beauty conceals the horror,
horror conceals the beauty.


I feel ridiculous, inadequate,
unequipped to alleviate the


suffering of others yoked to
disgraceful responsibilities.


Git along, Little Mama,
Giddyup, Big Daddy.


How sublime we look,
groomed by resignation.


Led across the world while
someone shouts our price.


More from Nikki Wallschlaeger:

Arguing with Myself,” poems


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