(scroll in landscape mode for intended experience)

Never buy horses
you can't take on the bus.
I argued with the driver,
and she pointed at the "No equines" sign
in flat red letters.
I remembered America's no longer free
except in Appalachia.

I left my horses, and the bus
hurtled north, out of the city, where I knew
the world lay convulsed and dissolved.
After some bent dirt roads, the bus reached
a tremendous stone, shaved
flat on top, only a foot tall yet
swallowing an acre's breadth.
Like a mountain's stub. Wide trim gray.
A marvel
in stalk country.
At the stop, all the dogs in the bus
ran out, wagging their tails
and seemingly home.
My lungs told me
the stone would steal all their air, yet my elbows
were sure the dogs would return to the bus at dawn
and ride back into the city.

I trust my lungs, and you're
a dog.
I would like to visit West Virginia
with my horses, but one of them
is scared of trees.
So yes, I exit the bus at my stop.

But I do not wag my tail.
I neigh.