Parable: Horse

He peered into the bar mirror over the bottles

of gin and whiskey. Yes, he thought, he really

did have a long face. Why hadn’t he noticed it

before? But looking out of his moony eyes,

he rarely wondered how others saw him, since,

apart from mirrors, he rarely saw himself.

Sure he was tall, no surprise there. Walking

along city sidewalks, he felt that was why people

slid to a stop when they saw him. But perhaps

it was his face that upset them, its odd expanse,

tombstone teeth, satchel mouth, black rubber lips.

People gawked and, glancing back, he saw

they were gawking still. None of this was new.

Yet each occasion once more fueled his sense

of isolation, which had begun at birth and came

from being an only child. He had no memory

of his father. His mother ran off after a few weeks

and he’d been raised by strangers. Stubbornly,

he worked to be strong, get on with the business

of living, to focus his thoughts on the road ahead.

But then a cruel wisecrack or brutal snicker

would tumble him back to the beginning again,

the self-doubt and crushing solitude. Did it really

matter if he had a long face? But it wasn’t just that,

it was his whole cluster of body parts. Alone they

might have been fine, even the boxy feet. Then,

when all joined into the oneness that was him,

it changed. Not only did people stare, they looked

offended; as if his very presence upset their pride

and sense of self-worth; as if they were saying, How

can it be good fortune for us to walk here, if you

walk here as well; as if to see him and smell him

lessened them as human beings. Soon they’d brood

about their failings: broken marriages, runaway kids.

Was this his only power, to make others feel lesser?

How many of these downcast do we see on the street

whose insides are marked by scars, who show off

their apparent good cheer and lack of concern only

to conceal their fears? And even if we saw them

what could we do? The bartender coughed to get

his attention, half-grinning, half-appalled.

Why shouldn’t he stay? He had no one to visit,

no place to go; he had only these long afternoons

in anonymous bars with the televisions turned low.

Give me a Jack Daniels, he said, and put it in a bowl.