The number pinned to my back was itching me
When the dust whipped around
And the crowd made the sound
Of a horrifying afterthought.
Crones in a wet tent cradled paper boats
Of salt potatoes in their laps
When the leathery snap of splitting halter hit.
Not that a horse's fit truly breaks
The ringtoss din, the screech of bolts, the chit-chat;
It was a narrow commotion.
Just like you'd test a cake for doneness
Was how the polished hooves gouged
His legs, his chest.
He balled up, his wounds met.
Each step of the Clydesdale's
Peppery, undignified dance
Hurt him worse.
I don't blame the beast for treading him
But I do blame him for spooking.
Everybody, horses included,
Gets scared when they can least afford to.
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