Portrait of an Old Horse

I wonder what shaggy thoughts
lie back of the long bony face,
trimmed forelock between half-cocked ears,
eyes bugged out bright as brown-skinned glass,
sagging lip—mine droops in the mirror
when I neigh the hungry hope
fleshed behind bony brows.
He stands there switching flies,
shoulders worn, sunken collar sores
healed over with gray hairs
(my head full of gray hairs).
He pulled a plow, wagon, mower,
something, can’t stop pulling,
he marches with a team as he
stands naked without his harness—
he’d go to meet a class even if
the classroom was empty,
what else could he do?
He never chased a butterfly
in his life or jumped a fence.
Now he’s old, sway-backed,
scruffy-tailed, teeth smooth,
half-asleep, waits to be fed.