colic I opened the door You hobbled through, red shirt unraveling at the hem shrunk leathery smooth and lines like the soft fold of fallen drapes in late December. You tell me horses were your life. a mosquito bit you but you lived. a spoonful of mineral oil does the trick. You sit hands pawn-like clasped broad-eyes ahead broken as the scraggly mane broodmare you tamed on a roundup in Tennessee.