A HORSE CALLED DIVORCE

I never heard the thud or the pound 
Of the hooves raking divots
In the uneven ground
Of a once sturdy union that pivots
To nose-dive blindly off course down and hell bound
To reposition at the rear, to chase after the pack
To be the non-runners on this hectic race track
That we called love

I was oblivious to the rasping 
And the scraping of horse shoe metal
That oily smell that has you gasping
For windows in search of petals
Of early summer flowers in the grounds of ivory towers
That provide a much more tolerable aroma
That we used to add fragrant substance to a terrible misnomer
That we called love

I was ignorant to the fact
That the flag had been raised
That signals the very last lap In this, the very last race
It was then that I noticed how tired…how easily I perspired
And I wondered how many spectators cards
Had written, in inverted coma’s ‘to the knackers yard’…
‘And the dog food tins of love’

A marriage certificate gets ripped
With as much angry contrition
As a losing betting slip
When you realize your horse is in last position
And now the hooves merely stumble and trot
But still the nags head condescendingly nods
And the heavy shoes churn up the turf and the sods
And the sticky mud that we called love

That laden ass, that donkey of doom
Which lost before it even began
On that same afternoon
Never even qualifying as an also ran
Just a wooden horse, or a Trojan divorce
A symbolic equine mockery
A splintered seat for the tender rear end of ‘jockery’ 
A horse called divorce
A neeeey-sayer of love