What Mr. Ed Dreams
by Nancy Nalven
about: face, hand, hoof, weird blendings of species transfixed, composite creatures like griffins and puffenstuffs (latinate), knows not where he gets it, maybe his mother, her side of the family extremely learned, could fool many farmhands into believing the bucket of apples did topple over from the wind, all the apples rolling away, swaying sweet rolled oats, sweeter than honey's sweetest, sweetest breaths of honey, own honey, plain as day. Why carrot, not monocle? Why saddle, not seatbelt? Consider the angst, ridden on walls, the bareback essentials. Barns are okay, depends on the smithy, I guess.
There is a little village, a well in the center square catches fireflies by the dozen. Huffed and puffed, horses could be dragged (not filched), testament to virtuosity. Strangers pick and choose, hunt and peck. No noose will tighten here, restless mane to hay, lay it down, sugarplum, baby.
Love love love love luckyshoes.