His Quaint Entertainment

A brown corral with a fence surrounding it.
I will ride the horse to provide him purpose.
To provide me charity and justice
by my own hand. Blackberry eyes

casually observe me in my cage,
and I imagine him saying,
’Every man for himself,’ but he grunts,
comes to the edge,

and defines me by my eyes.
The sun has been shining
all morning without a blink or wince,
and the horse responds a gleaming back.

Skin slides over muscle as the carousel begins.
All the work being done
is between my thighs,
while the wind gently confronts

my face. The flies leave him be,
they do every time he gallops.
Wind reels ‘round my head
and howls past my ears,

streaming and separating my hair.
Grass bows and the dirt road lumps
and scoops like small craters, like cellulite.
The stall calls with rusty hinges

and threshing wooden doors, knocking restlessly.
Black balloons gaze
at the limp corral he belongs to
until his next quaint entertainment.