The Ponycart Driver Speaks

Let me cast these runaway thoughts
somewhere, where the cartwheels utter
its agony on great stretches of
memory, printed on dust and ditches.

This is a voice ripped from the past,
though there is no past to discover.
No money in laden carts or punishing work.
The pony’s twitching muscles finally yielded
and the songs of gadflies flew away.

There, you see, the road writhes,
choking smoke, and dying.
Tomorrow, men will bury it five times over in
its own filth.

The pony’s might is of no use
and the cart lies on its side,
broken, tired of rumbling between two memories.

I can’t remember who bought the hide,
but a beaten shoe hangs in my taxi now.

Often it speaks.