Inroads

(I figured I should edit this post and explain a little bit of the driving force behind writing this poem.)

I grew up in both Swaziland (Mbabane) and South Africa (Pinetown). While a youth in Swaziland, I came upon a dead (or dying) horse on the side of the dusty road. Needless to say, it was a jarring experience for one so young--but for one of any age, naturally--and so here I tried to capture the mindset behind what I conjecture must've been a hit and run.

Inroads

Alone, on the side of the road, I saw
You: eyes still open, but probably not noticing
The flies that covered the rest of your face, nor
The blood that encrusted your parched skin
Silently begging for water

The once saliva-drenched bridle
As dry as the gully of
Your master's heart, wherever he may be

But he is not here, conspicuously absent
And so it falls to me to witness
This charade that is all too real

You realize the pallor of my face is from
The smell of your massive carcass
Derived of a semblance of life

Under the unrepenting steel clouds
Someone drives away with an iron-rich fender
Telling themselves that it is you
Who should've known better;
These roads are for man, not beast

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This page contains a single entry by Stephen Donner published on January 27, 2007 11:47 PM.

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