WEBVTT

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So we go from "Eating the Horse"
to this next poem is called "No

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Horse."

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I'm sometimes asked why--

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I've always had
animals in my life.

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I don't have pets.

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I don't have any.

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People ask me why this poem is
about why I don't have any pets.

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I do refer to a
French bulldog named

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Gide, who belonged to
the poet Richard Howard.

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I don't know if anyone--

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and Gide was a disgusting
little creature,

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but he makes an
appearance in this poem.

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This poem is called "No Horse."

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"No horse, no piebald Sicilian
donkey, no baby goats gambling

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on an old cable spool.

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No cat, fat and
shedding by the stove.

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No rooster plumed
and cartoonish,

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dashing about the yard, putting
a hole in my shin with his spur.

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No rescued cur.

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No teacup Pomeranian,
afraid to walk on grass,

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piddling on a pee
pad like a God.

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No God either.

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For that matter, no father.

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He's all ash.

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Now Mother makes a
hash of her checkbook.

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When she last drove,
a small crash.

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The guinea pigs of childhood
whistle from their graveyard

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at the dump.

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Gide, the lascivious Frenchy,
must hump some other chump.

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No sheep weep on hilly bourn.

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No son, not even a little one.

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No girl curled on
gay Papa's lap.

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No way to stop what
I've started here.

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Just steer.

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Just steer the goddamn big car.

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"Look out!"

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I shout out the window.

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But no one hears.

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Who hears anyway?

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Who is here anyway?"

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