One Way or Another

We rode the horses
to the top of the hill
where the blond dry grass
shakes in breezes.

We looked down
on the town,
its forever shabbiness,
everyone in it
exhausted and resentful.

We're just visitors here
now. Our cheer
isn't appreciated.
No one here cares
about our lives elsewhere,
and we can't say
why they should.

We thought of letting
the horses run free.
But they live in the town
too. We rode them
back, wiped and combed
them, shoveled out
their stalls, fed and watered
them. I slipped them
the last of the carrots,
bright orange like stove
fires.

We got in the car
and drove out of town,
maybe for the last time,
maybe not. The thing is,
we don't care, one way
or another.


hans ostrom 2020