POEM OF THE WEEK: Rejected

BY HARRY WAITZMAN

My poem is a dead horse
that attracts flies and stinks
to the end of town.
My friends avoid it, wishing
it had been shot and staggered
to its death elsewhere.

A child walks close to the trail
and pulls. Horsehair comes out
of the carcass in long strands.
The boy yells and does an Indian
war dance around the body.
The horse winks.