Cavalier
The old horse lifts his knees
to pick his way
through a patch of thistle
like a well-heeled woman
gathering her skirts to tiptoe
through a puddle.
He pauses in the middle,
neck outstretched, lips
drawn back, and clips
the last purple head
between convex yellow teeth
with the delicacy of drinking
tea from a cup held
between thumb and forefinger.
Then backs out awkwardly
and ambles over.
Coming close enough
for you to kiss the soft
bat's wing of his muzzle,
he blows beery
grass-fermented breath
in your face, then suddenly
looks away, ears pricked,
fascinated by nothing obvious.
More poetry by Carolyn Fisher