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.