Please wait for the beautiful blue sky

Horse Opera

I have seen the ashen faces of old men
in shopping malls. I am like them, I say,
looking into the mirror.
I am not like them, I say--

Listen. I have this horse.
In the dreams of day I have this horse.
Day mare? Ha. Day stallion.
I hop on the horse.
He has wings of fiction and wants me to fly off and
        become a character in my own stories.
Is my horse Silver or Rosinante?

We ride up up
His wings beat the air
       their tips spinning vortices
condensing in the cold blue sky
        forming words.
The words are a soap opera. No,
a horse opera.
        (Soap is an insult to horses.)

A woman watches the horse and rider far above.
She sees the vapor trails but cannot make out the words.
(Too bad; she's in the story.)
She wears a cloak of loden green.

Flying at too high an altitude
I am afraid. I want to get off
but it's a long way

	.      .    .   .     .       .       .         .     .
	to the ground

And I don't have
                         a parachute.

.................................................................. Israel Lewis

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