Pony
They could, he thought,
just tie it to
the mailbox.
But instead of the pony, they brought home
a baby sister, and when he thought he might as well go live
under the mailbox himself, they said he was
too little to sit
by the curb
and he railed
against the back yard throwing
at the bricks every single jar
from the bag his mother had taken
to the hospital–make-up–
pushing bangs back
like a tossed mane,
tears galloping
down the flanks of
cheek like sweat
on heated muscle,
understanding then
that the world was not
as he
would have it.
Why perhaps
only children sometimes have
hard times
as they grow older–
********************************
My fourth poem for April National Poetry Month–I am front-loading, I think, as my life gets pretty busy mid-week– this one for my prompt on Real Toads to write something related to horses; painting is mine. (Also, title has been changed since initially posting.)
ManicDDaily 
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