As I recall, the black horse just appeared,
undelivered, unrequested,
dusty and skinny, like a tramp
with his hat in his good hand.
He was used to pity. He could work with it.
His dull eyes were rimmed with red,
and his habits were all bad:
he bit, suddenly and cruelly,
with his ears back flat.
He kicked the yearling squarely
in the ribs, so thoroughly
did he despise innocence.
The sweet filly he tried to mount
there, in the pasture, knowing we watched.
And we added to his scars
as everyone who owned him did.
Only once I forced him to take the bit
and slipped onto his bony back.
He seemed to acquiesce, then
threw himself into the fence.
If an animal can’t be used one way
it will be used another.
So they came for him,
four strong men, armed with cigarettes,
leather, rope, a blindfold,
in a truck barred like a jail.
The black horse fought as if
he smelled a place they’d been.
Trussed in, he was at last becalmed.
Almost bored. The truck rumbled away,
blue exhaust drifting into the cornfield.