Frijole Horses

So, awkwardly, astraddle of
the brown horse on the end
I follow smelly asses where
the river seems to bend

then, down among some spotted trees
a camp without a floor;
a place of fleas and noisy frogs
along the river shore. 

I lay out clean pajamas as they
romp where they may choose…

I’m startled by the clanking noise

as they remove their shoes.

I man the tool that opens cans,

I am a cook of means.

The horses, (frowns with puzzled looks),

at last eat all their beans.

They have to drink their coffee cold,

the guide, he plumb forgot

to tell me where to find an AC

outlet for the pot.

I loose my belt and scratch the critters
hidden out of sight;
all over in my under wear
amazing how they bite!

Against the sky stand ancient hills
in ghostly silhouette;
the massive guards of nature’s camp
eternal, posted yet

to house the seeds of what’s to be,
to cause the stream to bend…
to echo with the constant sound
of horses breaking wind.