So we go from "Eating the Horse" to this next poem is called "No
Horse."
I'm sometimes asked why--
I've always had animals in my life.
I don't have pets.
I don't have any.
People ask me why this poem is about why I don't have any pets.
I do refer to a French bulldog named
Gide, who belonged to the poet Richard Howard.
I don't know if anyone--
and Gide was a disgusting little creature,
but he makes an appearance in this poem.
This poem is called "No Horse."
"No horse, no piebald Sicilian donkey, no baby goats gambling
on an old cable spool.
No cat, fat and shedding by the stove.
No rooster plumed and cartoonish,
dashing about the yard, putting a hole in my shin with his spur.
No rescued cur.
No teacup Pomeranian, afraid to walk on grass,
piddling on a pee pad like a God.
No God either.
For that matter, no father.
He's all ash.
Now Mother makes a hash of her checkbook.
When she last drove, a small crash.
The guinea pigs of childhood whistle from their graveyard
at the dump.
Gide, the lascivious Frenchy, must hump some other chump.
No sheep weep on hilly bourn.
No son, not even a little one.
No girl curled on gay Papa's lap.
No way to stop what I've started here.
Just steer.
Just steer the goddamn big car.
"Look out!"
I shout out the window.
But no one hears.
Who hears anyway?
Who is here anyway?"