Ode to a Wild Pony

Ode to a Wild Pony

Oh, it’s true: you’ll have to gallop fast

to keep up with her,

wear her soft against your bare skin like fur.

Stirrup saddled thighs to her warmth

and tense yourself in headlong dash

for the onrushing fence;

untamed smile gives you no defence.

Racing her; chasing her

face-whipped wind over desert sand,

front running the finish line to seize her hand.

Yet it’s sheer vanity to even think

to pin any rosette on her tack,

stroke her wild mane

or seek to tame;

for such élan and style

is something you lack.

Don’t look back;

with luck, she might win,

place or show;

dazzle and headline somewhere you go

with a look of eagles,

toss back champagne

then casual be trainer of your reins.

And, oh, the pumping blood through veins

as you overreach

and stumble half slain,

whirling across myriad dance floors,

leave you pounding on her stable doors,

panting for breath and hard quarter cracked,

dying at your paddock charred.

But the thrill is always in the chase,

you know you lack the poise and grace:

Oh, some such wild longings were built to last,

the time to canter has long since passed

now steel yourself and gallop fast.