The horse should ideally pull
the cart. Agreed? But if the horse
is not in sight you’re left with
the cart part, and must envision
what kind of horse will pull your
poem into the light of day.
Problem is, most cart-pullers are
tired, worn out and hacknied, lacking
sufficient strength to bear the load.
Love, death, flower, tree, even Trump
won’t do it today. The backside
of an eyeball? Ingrown toenails
seeking freedom? The charley horse
that sets you dancing? Or the rat
poison under the sink?
What’s common to all of us?
Hate? A drag. Sorrow? Too close.
Hope? Delusional. Denial?
Not me! Revolution? Not yet.
Pain? Love my oxycodone.
Truth? But doesn’t that depend on
where you’e standing? Reality!
Let’s hear it for reality!
Really? I’ll vote for Make Believe:
Two golden butterflies pull my
cart through rainbows in the sky.
Oh my! Curly tresses, rosy cheek,
music charms when ere I speak.