The blind horse meanders the road.
Thin, splotched with rainrot,
Angles of wither, haunch, untrimmed
Hoofs frayed as cuffs, heavy head swaying
Side to side. The slaughterhouse banned
With its few bucks of scale price. Not worth
Killing—the vet’s expensive needle, shotgun
Shell too much to waste. So they simply
Let him go. Maybe a semi hurls him
Ditchward or starvation strips him dry
In drought-struck fields. The happy ending
Would be a girl with rope and halter
To lead him into the stall of plenty.
And reader: this happens. The moon-blind
Fortune of a sway backed woe. Curried,
Brushed, sweet feed by the bucket.