I love horses because they will outrun
the fastest man. They are majestic,
as stately as a Saturday woman
before a party. Horses smell like what
it means to be fast: sweat & gravel
kicked up on early morning runs.
The in&out of breath like gravel
kicked up on early morning runs.
The in & out of breath like gravel
in tired lungs. I groomed & raced
horses from Texas to Philadelphia until
one broke my leg bone with a back
kick. Thanks to that break, I can't ride
anymore. Even if I could, we've got
these automobiles now that can carry
us a mile in a minute & I'm buying
the fastest one I can find once
I get my money together. I'm like
an automobile in the ring. My fists
work like cranked-up engines. I've got
the kind of elasticity other fighters
dream about after I put them to sleep
on the canvas. When I clinch a man,
it's like being swaddled in forgiveness.
When I hook a man, it's like being hit
by frustration. I can't tell if horses
are happy or confounded by the new
means of locomotion, but I can say
with certainty my prize fighting cohorts
are decidedly dissatisfied by my presence.