A horse without a fancy barn
Without stable hands to groom it
A horse perhaps on a modest farm
Or a poor family’s farm in winter

If lucky there’s a blanket some
Straw a tub of water
If lucky a few more horses
Warm bodies like your own

At least you have a place
A field to age in
That is unless you’re carted off
Slaughtered and then canned for food

What happens when a man grows old
Without a place to call his own
Perhaps without a blanket
Living underneath a bridge
Perhaps with others
Or alone

With luck a charity coat or jacket
Warms his back or hers
With luck there is no violence

And even those horses on fancy farms
Those retirement home wealthy
Find bones getting brittle
Brains too often damaged

There too they end up lucky if they feel
They really have a home