Remorse

The horse’s name was Remorse.
 There were people said, “Gee, what a nag!”
 And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so
 They called him Remorse.

   When he was a gelding
 He flashed his heels to other ponies
 And threw dust in the noses of other ponies
 And won his first race and his second
 And another and another and hardly ever
 Came under the wire behind the other runners.

 And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play
 By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.

 What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
 A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
   Nick me with any old name.
 Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
 Only... slam me across the ears sometimes... and hunt for a white star
 In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
 Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.

Published in Smoke and Steel

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