At auction, as an afterthought
he considered her a sun-dancer pony.
Horses could be stolen or made a gift
He wished to recapture, what they had been.
He had stamped crimson hoof and hand prints on her flanks.
He had painted many coup lines on her thighs.
He had been in her stable.
He had placed his blanket across her proud back.
He thought her knew her, once.
Since, she has sat at the head drum.
She wears eagle feathers in her hair.
She bares scars on her chest and has stared into the sun
She has tasted the bone whistle.
She had some horses, like him, but she had set them free.
Seeing her now, riding her horses
He realized he could never buy her.
She would never be broken.
He had wandered off from the red road.
She would never take him back
His days of riding her were over.
He remained, mounted to his stool
trapped in a corner, by the service bar.
Still tied to the rail, he was an Indian ruin.
