AT THE WILD
CAMP
Horses are broken here like steeds
at a poker table, wincing for nothing
and then letting off steam. I don't know
the means nor the manner, but that's
how the cowboys tell it. My little car,
the Opel that brought me here, lies
now leaking in its own puddle of juice.
I certainly cannot just walk back home.
-
Should I look around for some other ride:
some horse-guy's junker sister in an
open-top convertible would be about right:
a Jean Harlow lookalike vamping like some
Marilyn Monroe? I couldn't tell anyway,
and she'd probably be taken. Bank books
and credit cards are all these people know.
-
I have a birthmark on my belly, a swirl in
brown shaped just like a woman's buttocks.
I can fully explain that to anyone who sees.
Around here, I can just say I was kicked
by a horse and get on with the sister.
That's really not so bad at all.
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