10/15 poem

Django, part two

When old man Stephen first laid
his eyes on you, his frown laying
roses on the path to his scowl, it
wasn’t because of your youth, or
some half-wrought indignant
where’d you buy that beautiful horse?,
but rather because 78 years of prostration
had suddenly returned to singe his face.
How surely, how confidently you rode
your magnificent beast, as if through
servitude and escape it had always belonged
to you.

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