A figure moves through the stable’s darkness.
From a hessian sack, over half his age,
he feeds red apples to these once prized horses,
telling each stories of life before the war.
Their heads nuzzle his palm, snuffling
out the difference between hand and apple.
Each mouths the soft spheres in moments
listening only for his low, continual sound.
George would lose entire days to tinkering.
He’d prize his watches open; remove their bright insides,
but lacked the drilling to make them work again.
We’re left with only bits and pieces.
Rob, he had a hand and eye for paint.
Portraits of his likeness, mine too.
but discontent, he defaced them in the end.
Scuffed up canvases line our walls, just collecting dust.
He fits the headstall, fixes in the bit.
He takes the reins and leads them out
in slow procession, guiding them along
the same path he takes each morning,
the same, irreversible steps.
