K. E. Duffin

War Horse

Plumed like Bucephalus, his yellow teeth
piano keys, his massive haunches missile
launchers, he hauls the artillery of thrill
across the practice grounds that shake beneath

his too-familiar tread. His blinkered eyes
are forever scanning the tiny black Bibles
of fame in which he seeks his burly name,
as his clip-clop avoids the common stables.

When a child picks awkwardly at a scale,
rubato sometimes coaxes him to rumba,
and then with a joyful snort, he clears the air.

Rumors of him are best, and glimpses rare
as they are fresh, silhouetted on a hill,
a lovable nag, grazing to the marimba.