And That’s a Fact

I’ve only tried once. Fell off. Slowly.
Slid like animation. Like marmalade
off hot toast. Right off the saddle.
I was soap on a slide from that
horse’s first stride. Dented myself
up a bit, too. Hit my head heavy
on the August-dry clay. Ended up

with a soot-black eye and a sprained
wrist that turned a tasty shade
of violet. So anyway the horse and I
headed straight back to the stables.
Fed it windfall apples the whole way.
Talked at great length about how
I’d remember this day for the rest

of my too short life, though probably
for all the wrong reasons, as I rubbed
my head. And that horse just studied
me with a long piteous look as if it
alone possessed all the knowledge
of the universe, and couldn’t believe
that I wasn’t privy to the same.

I love horses. Don’t understand them.
Don’t ride them either. Feel more
secure sitting in a rocking chair.