I loved you, you know.
Never mind that I was nine
years old and couldn’t get
on by myself. Never mind
the velvet hat that flew
off, the long fidgety trail
of riders, the bus horn
and the bolt. I love you
even now. I mean that.
If I could, I’d take the snaffle
bit from your mouth, lead you
back to your dry box stall
where it still smells of alfalfa,
sunlight and AM hits from 1964.
I’d take your paddock picture
and use it as my desktop, brush
your coat with a curry comb, whisper
what I was not too small to guess
before the headaches, daydreams
and doctors. It was not your fault.
