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.