Hang Your Head

As I hang mine.
We are forlorn
horses in a barren
field, heads drooping
over brown stubble.

We have sad, dark
eyes. Rivers of sweat
run down our flanks,
streaking our blue-black
hides with rust-red
dampened dust.

We seem, to passing
eyes, the saddest
creatures—without
sustenance, without
purpose. And yet.

Here we are, nibbling
still at the yellow
tufts of nothing
before us. Making
do. Surviving. Till,
again, we thrive.