Under a raw red dusting of sky
stands the old man's dream.
"Colts want breaking, first thing,"
he says, chewing his words like fatback.

The mare stands mute within her stall,
neighing softly for her son.
The old man grabs the bridle of the colt,
leading it down the ***** of the corral-

But the beast is having none of it.
Electric is the blood within his breast,
a living wire of flesh. He stampedes
through the dirt, dragging the old man,

the rope's harsh friction slashing at his palms.
I see the colt, now fully charged,
tearing through the fence,
a frail and helpless wire electrified.

"Leroy!" I hear my mother cry behind me
as the old man tumbles in the dust.
"*** over teakettle," grunts the farmhand,
gnashing at his plug like fodder.

Ripped and bleeding, the colt's flank lies open.
"Aw hell," my father says, as he lies,
benumbed, covered with dust,
under a raw red dusting of sky.