Pony Ride
“Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.”
John 1:29
The boy, almost eighteen, sits on the damp concrete of a narrow alleyway,
His legs tucked up in a fetal position,
The open toes of his worn black sneakers,
Jammed against the cold brick wall,
His back pressed against an old wooden door.
He nudges the cleft of his chin against the collar of a dirty jeans jacket.
His thick fingers fumble eagerly for his kit,
As he hums a tune softly,
A tune from a 50’s TV show he’s never seen.
His hollowed eyes,
Once the beautiful warm brown of a chestnut colt,
Are now pale and vacant,
Able to see nothing but the rubber tubing, the black plastic lighter,
The tarnished spoon
And the white plastic syringe,
Nestled against the S the bent zipper of his jeans had made
In the hollow of his lap.
“A horse is a horse, of corpse, of corpse.” He croons softly,
As he lights the flame under the spoon.
He has lost the spoon he used to use.
This is a different one.
A sugar spoon.
With a short handle.
This one gets real hot,
Real fast,
Sometimes burning the tips of his fingers.
But he is used to it.
He has built calluses on these fingers,
And around the bounds of his tortured soul.
“Get off your high horse!”
He used to hear them say
When he, in truth, would try,
And yet his daily trials were not enough.
They washed their hands of him, for
What is truth?
His laughter wracks his body now,
Still wedged between
The wall and the door.
“I’m getting off on my high horse now.”
He yells into the empty night
In a mock reply
To no one.
As he squirms around his red brick cell
To find a comfortable position,
The plastic syringe
Rolls lazily off his lap
And clatters onto the damp cement below.
“Kiss it up to God.” He mumbles,
Fumbling between his legs until he locates the elusive tool.
Trapping it between his fingers, he lifts it up to his face.
His lips meet its thin silver shaft.
“Kiss it up to God.” He says again as he aims its sharp tip
At the blotched bruises of his arm,
A long track of hurts that leads down
The purple avenue to his heart.
The silver tip pierces the surface of his sallow skin
And,
With a push of his thumb on the plunger,
The sleek white horse is released from its stall,
Brakes its reins,
Then
Gallops uncontrolled through the blueness of his veins.
His brown eyes slowly close in mute consent,
His body slackens in a heap
As he feels a cold wind blow
Snowflakes through his chestnut mane.
He barely notices
As the great white horse jumps gracefully over the split rail fence
And into the unknown field beyond.
He throws his thin arms wide,
Face to the clouds,
Prepared now
For the ride of his life,
And realizing,
Ever so slowly,
He will soon be home for his birthday.
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