I found my horse in the closet.
He leaned against the shoulders of shadows,
his brown hair still soft, even after
countless spills of apple juice and milk.
The stick for his body, chipped and worn.
We traveled the desert, my fenced backyard.
We rode faster than bullets, arrows. We always escaped.
Sometimes we were outlaws hiding among tables
as the mother sheriff looked for a missing cookie.
I could never escape, my cookie crumb trail scattered
throughout the canyon of chairs and stools. Dan
never left me alone in the corner.
We planned our daring jailbreak.
I remember the last days of the Wild West.
I sat with my parents on the corral fence.
I watched Dan��� sniffed, pressed and pinched
by his own kind. Flesh and wood.
Imagination, the button
in Dan���s ear.
