in a racy world of competitive types,
because, you know,
two brains are generally better than one.
Like the puttering hybrid – who’s the engine
and who the battery? Like the panting
pantomime horse, who has which end?
Tirelessly, observers try to subvert the scheme,
an affront to their own marital dynamic.
Some days they attack the head, pulling until
the soft felting under the muddling belly
is strained. Others, they make a rush
on the tail: that inevitable provocation.
We’re pulled up short with a surprise
hoof in the face, a wet clod in the mouth,
a rude clop round the ear – proof
the ‘one singular horse’ article of faith
still walks alongside us, its hot breath telling
of put-away centuries, ones we hardly knew
and ones like nightmares we thought long gone.
