Empty paddock
The horse has gone
the bathtub too
The grass is long in the paddock
There is no shade there so I do not sit and contemplate the loss
I keep walking, my skin throbbing in the heat
while I grapple with the title of a poem
I have not yet written
about whether this need for fulfillment
can ever be sated
Did the horse die or did they just move it to greener pastures?
Whites so white
Who are the people who know how to
keep their whites white?
Angels come to teach us?
Or demons come to torment us?
I curse them as I toss out
yet another
yellow edged bra
If only they could teach me
my whole life would
be sweeter
And I could get caught
in accidentally
compromising
positions
without evidence
of sweat stains
age
and poor washing techniques
Is the horse lonely?
There is a horse in a paddock at the end of the street.
There is a bath tub with water in it for the horse to drink from.
When I visit the horse, it doesn't approach me,
but it does trot along beside me as I walk.
I guess it hopes that I have a carrot or a cube of sugar.
Those are the things that girls give horses in books I have read.
I was never a horsey girl.
This horse I like because it is always there and it is living in the middle of West Footscray, in a paddock surrounded by houses and factories and warehouses and it trots along beside me when I visit.
I have been away from home for nearly two weeks.
I did not tell the horse I was going away.
What do animals think when people they become accustomed to just stop showing up?
Do they feel hurt or get angry?
I imagine they are philosophical.
But I figure the horse must be philosophical in the first place to be at peace with living alone in a paddock surrounded by factories and houses, in the middle of an industrial suburb.
So I hope the gap left by my absence is not too severe.