The pony stood patiently,
     Not even angry that it could not graze
                               On blacktop,
     Could do nothing but stand,
     Four well-shod hooves preferring ground
     Just as that dipping snout
     Would appreciate a taste of grass.
A barefoot, blue-jeaned fourteen year old,
     Summer tanned, summer healthy,
     At last popped out the convenience store door,
     Out onto the small parking lot,
     Place for coming/going cars,
     Built for standard customers,
Not for the miniaturized horse
     Who patiently dreams of grassy places
     In whatever horsy way it thinks:
Its rider, equally horsy,
     Doesn't quite notice her prancing dreams
                                      Fading,
     As her thoughts are narrowed
     By the corrosive heat of sunlight
     Turned to baking homogeneity,
     Reflecting off the blacktop small town streets.
 

8/18/83
 

Index     Red Fire