Sometimes the atmosphere here is a bordello of bad love
and only the horses seem to fling their heads high
in wide grins of approval.
Their teeth are green with unknown plantings
and their eyes lovely with long lashes
that wink or perhaps only blink away
the annoyance of the flies.
The flies follow them as though
the horses have walking dessert written
on their shoulders.
The shoulders of the horses are quivering.
Sometimes they are delirious and laid back.
Sometimes they party dance to mambo and swing
their wide hips in a melodrama of horseplay.
The horses and I laugh at the people who bring the hay
and always unload a truck that is several bundles low.
We laugh at the money mongers who whistle at races
and lay bets on the haunches of the sleekest hide.
In winter we stay inside, where the stall is warm
with our hilarity and we watch a wide screen where men
fumble the balls, the country, and most of the man made charities
where the money disappears without warning.
The horses are delirious and hilarious and often
on a cold night in December, we lay bets on the men
puffing up the coming year with dentured horse teeth,
the real horses would never wear.