Of Love and Squalor
He stands in a littered gutter,
One ill-shod foot resting heavy
On its seedy toe, which makes
A bony hip protrude, and barely
Eases the pain of inflamed joints.
Some sores from string-tied harness
Are healed. Some fresh and raw.
His head is low, eyes half-closed
With fly-infested matter. The cart
He pulls is not fully laden
But he is far away from strength
And youth; and the memory of
Green fodder and clean limbs
Faded almost beyond recall.
STOP. Sad and angry at this
Pitiful scene. Berate the driver,
Report this to the S.P.C.A. is my
Response to this shameful, cruel neglect.
A barefoot boy, stick legs daubed
With scabs and running pustules,
Places in the cart a battered
Sheet of tin, and then, from a covered
Tub within, removes a loaf, sets it
On the ground, to eat at length. He withdraws
Another bowl, and crouching at the horse's head
Offers it a meal of cooked rice and curled grey
Cabbage leaves. The horse eats soundlessly.
His ears are listless, and his nostrils flaccid.
Briefly his eyes dilate, and in their
Dull brown depths an expression flickers,
Like an ember in a burnt out drum.
STOP. Sad and moved by this
Pieta, I see that courage and acceptance
Are the horse's response to the
Poor boy's capacity for love.
© Lynne Harris
