Your horse

has arrived and is bending himself into the room,

refolding his legs. I knuckle his nose,

which reminds me of the arm of a chair.

 

He is talking low and steady,

rolling back an eye towards his chestnut brain.

Man-words are climbing his long throat.

 

I show him to the bathroom

and he is embarrassed. Next he is hoofing

through your photo album.

 

There are more of me, than of him.

We are crunching on polo mints together

and remembering the way your body used to move.

© Jack Underwood 2006