eve of the twenty-seventh...

ever the same.

ever the same.

ever the same.

break in time,

break in time.

dust bowl.

ever the same.

"birthdays are nothing

but a sluice," she mutters,

and pulls away.

she turns her back upon

a thick chanelling of freeway,

stares at a wet heft of fog.

packs grass, counts sticks.

touches the edge of the face

of things, without wincing.

this is steeling.

there is little else to state,

besides the obvious.

she wanted a pony.

a pony with spots,

a swishing tail,

a neat little mane.

she wanted a pony and

a barn and a nice pair of

boots, with a denim jacket

to match. she wanted a boy

to take her riding. a boy with

nice hair and big hands and

a house. a house, for both her

and the pony. the pony. with a

saddle and things,

a long leather

lead. she wanted to pull the pony

around. all around in

the streets, with

the townspeople looking on,

smiling and

saying nice things.

a pony, a pony. she wanted that pony.

she wanted them all

to be jealous. she had pretty white teeth,

to flash as she went strolling past,

holding tight to the pony.

she had legs and arms. she had

hair. eyes the color of bay water

gone bad. she wanted that pony.

she asked and she asked.

please with the pony. please.

the whole of it. the swarm of it.

it seemed like horse fever.

she was begging and pleading.

looking around in

a strange state of angst.

all the while

unable to take her mind off

of the rich
chocolate cake.