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.
