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The cold street promises nothing.
I question in my mind what drove me here—
here to 7th Avenue,
away from your loving arms
to seek out the comfort of a horse.
And then I saw her—
her fur long about her neck,
the run of her pantyhose.
Her name was off-track Betty.
She was Secretariat personified.
She was an answer that begged an equestrian.
I feel I am going around in ovals
and to understand her
I will have to walk a mile-and-a-quarter
in her shoes.
I want to burn down the world
under azure skies, change
a perfectly good tire, find a prison pen-pal,
plant a perennial
and I have wandered here out of wanderlust,
my head spinning after learning
the Queen Mum is dead.
The cold street promises nothing, except a
come-on from the horse on 7th Avenue.
by David Clink
from: Come-on from the Horse on 7th Avenue, ©2002
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