Fowl Foal
after Danse Macabre by Norman Dubie
A worn saddle was perched on a rotten fencepost
on the edge of a field of spinach.
Pop-eyes, the old men called them, flowery
heads that only scarecrows would
mind…
No one at Cliff’s garage
could ever recall a car
crashing into a horse’s skull. Sure enough,
the tire had blown, skidded
through the fence
and plowed through the barn.
Had it been April, someone
could have helped put out the fire.
As the car exploded like a gunshot,
violent black smoke choked the air.
Blowing the stench from its nostrils
a lone foal whinnied,
then smiled and pranced
with the methodical movements
of a marionette –
Its cruel smile for the true irony.
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