straight from the horse's mouth

i remember cement hot
and warped against
the pale flesh of my
9-year-old legs.

a best friend.

one who wore pastel
unicorn tank tops, sang
church choir black
lady proud.

we drew.

sprawled next
to the dumpster
(the only smooth
surface on
the playground,
unoccupied),

we fantasized
geldings and mares,
appaloosas and arabians;

our art, small and awkward,
satisfied the equestrian within.