At The Crack Of A Whip

I am not a workhorse, I say.

When people ask what I am,

I never say "horse."

But I beg for attention, applause, that wreath!

I admit:

I want to feel what it's like,

the weight of the garland, the scent.

It's not like me to want it,

It is too human, too stupid. 

Even I know!

A hoof can't hold a goddamn thing.

It just scratches and scrapes

at the surface of the shape.

Still,

I point my big head to the sky and say,

"I'll do it again, and again, and again!"

I only have one name. 

...

(k)