The Horse Knows

Looking into the peaceful yet penetrating
large brown marble,

I see a reflection of myself—

a man with a camera, squinting.

The horse looks back with a raised eyebrow.

Is he impressed with my stature?

Surprised by my confidence?

No—
that’s definitely skepticism.

And now I see it:

pity.

He’s taking me in with all his senses—

the quiet metronome of my heartbeat,

slightly hurried,

as if I’m trying too hard.

The faint breath of coffee

woven with peanut butter from breakfast,

a flavor note I doubt he admires.

The twitch in my eyebrow—

does he wonder

if I’m contemplating his beauty,

or suspect that my midsection really is that big
and not just oddly warped

by the curve of his eye?

And perhaps

he feels the weight of my presence,

literally—
the donuts I indulged in last week

leaving my midsection

a touch more generous

than I care to acknowledge.

Still,

he exhales slowly,

blinks once,

and accepts me—

not for the man I imagine myself to be,

but for the exposed animal before him.