From PROBLEMS AND MIRACLES by Ryan Davis:
T R Y S T I N G
W I T H T H E
P L A S T I C H O R S E
the hillsides closed their storybooks.
Vermont has said its prayers.
the town is tucked in tightly,
but there is business left unfinished.
so I, Sunday-shoed and humid,
crawl beneath the covers
down back roads, creeping quietly
so as not to wake the merchants,
though I am certain that, by this point,
they are knee-deep
in whatever dreams may have them.
days ago, I found a figurine,
a stallion in mid-gallop,
back-broken, drowning in the earth,
nameless.
but I did not shelter him
for he was not mine.
I thought,
“what if he means something to someone?
who am I to ride him caped in black?”
so I aided him and left him
in the eye-range of a child.
tonight, I walk, awake,
heavy as sin with guilt,
searching below the sheets
for something lonely as I.
but the schoolyard,
it is quiet,
dark as love and Egypt
and there is no stallion standing,
nothing unclaimed but myself
as the creek still runs his mouth
and the swing spends futile effort
getting that song out of her head.