Today the Horse

      broke from my grip as I led

      him from barn to arena. This had

      never happened before. I stood

      dumbfounded as he galumphed

      across the meadow, saddled and bridled,

      ducking his head to tear mouthfuls

      of spring grass from the field—

      the temptation of it all too much

      for him. He stepped on his reins,

      and I thought, Either the reins will break

      or he’ll slice his tongue. I watched

      as the reins fell in two soft pieces.

      I’d stayed out too late drinking

      the night before, and I was unprepared

      for the sudden rear and heave

      of all that horse muscle. At the bar,

      I’d been caught up in the gentle

      attentiveness with which a friend

      brought his ex-wife her ginger ale

      and made sure she was happy, holding

      the door as she left and asking

      if she wanted him to walk her to her car.

      At one point, she’d told me

      she’d always regretted not going

      to medical school. It was what her parents

      had wanted, and perhaps the world needed

      more doctors who cared about people.

      The exes moved around each other

      with the quiet assurance of those

      who have shared close quarters.

      If I could have, I would have wished

      that fleeting