A foal had been born,
had emerged on thin stilts
from the tobacco barn,
and with woodchips stuck
to it. An ice cream truck
looked lost and dragged
behind it a string of soup
and corn cans. I sat
on the porch and forced
my thoughts on the front lawn.
Very pale-looking, sure. Very
tightly gripping my beer can.
You sat with me.
You tipped back your head
so I could look down your throat.
The foal tottered by, at a dead gallop.
This is very awkward, you said.
Yes, I said.
This is, you said… well…
and then you nodded off.
Yes, I said,
and then I nodded off.
When I awoke you were gone.
And a faint rumbling from
the tool shed? All day
things had seemed a long way
off, as they sometimes do
to a man under chloroform.
A yellow bird flickered past
and I could hear the duck chasing
the cows around. I went
and stood on the lawn and
smoked cigarettes, one
after another. The sky was blue
and the grass was green.
I considered this
and blew a smoke-ring at
the cat, feeling suddenly
combustible, some dreamish,
autobiographical thoughts
floating past me tied to a raft.
And then I guess I nodded off.
When I awoke I was lying on the lawn,
my cigarette still burning
between my lips. I finished it
and stood up and flicked
the butt at a fencepost and walked
toward the barn. It’s raining, I said
to myself and it was.
And I have to go feed the matted ones.
