and I mean to mourn for you,
the halter holds my head back;
my teeth grind against the bit -
there is no way, the Master will say,
to mourn at all without
being chemically off-balance
or a danger-to-your-fellows off-base.
There is no healthy mourning
for horses pulling carts - their hoof-beats
in the shit, the muck, the welter
of carcinogenic hours, chained against
the post with no room to move
their heads, no way to get their heads
to their hands, which they have not,
being only - merely - horses.
AND, if you break your leg, you're shot -
point-blank, eye to eye,
unwanted and unneeded to be dealt
with in any kind of other-than-dismissal
command or even comment,
and buried bloodily out of sight of
the Master's children.