the plight of the work horses

If my head stays on my hands

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.