97poems/handsome

HANDSOME

At 4p.m. the handsome man
rides his two horses,
upon the mottled one,
my father would know
what to call it,
the white mare,
walking alongside.

“She looks tired,”
I say one day
when I pass them
on the path.
“No,” he answers,
“she is just holding
her head low.”

Spring settles over
the hillside trails,
the man with horses
rides shirtless
this unseasonably warm day.
I am sleeveless already.

Some time later,
days, weeks – or longer,
I pass him on the street
as he is saying to someone
that one of his horses
must be put down today.
I can’t recall the name,
but I knew at once
which horse it was.

3/25/97
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