Oh, Dudley, your horse.
            Nell Fenwick

You think I'm just a ditzy redhead
prancing through meadows, picking Black-Eyed
Susans, dreaming of Dudley. You think
I don't pay attention and that's why
Whiplash snares me, wraps me
in ropes, binds me over and over
again to this cold iron rail
to wait for that long, throbbing
whistle. But he's only playing his part
(he's not the sharpest tool
in the shed) and I let him.

On sunny days I pretend to fixate
on purple coneflowers, humming mindless
tunes as he lumbers up behind,
lassos me like a bawling calf. Oh, yes,
I scream. It's got to look good.

Even while I’m lying here
and the engine’s hot steam curls
between the mountain’s dark tips,
I’m not afraid. I know Dudley
will manage to stay astraddle
Horse and when I hear the clop-
clatter of hooves ringing through
the rails I start to tingle, knowing
I’ll soon have that snow-white stallion
looming above me, nickering softly.

I’ll coo a bit at Dudley, give Snidely
a harrumph, but the first thing I’ll do
when my bonds are loosened
is throw my hungry arms around
that equine hunk of muscle,
nuzzle his soft pink lips, whisper
I’ve an apple hidden
deep in the folds of my gown.