What people in Louisville care about.

To some people in Louisville, horses are a big deal.

There's a man who comes into my work

dressed in slacks

with a crease that goes from thigh to ankle,

and a white shirt with the top two buttons undone.

He unrolls a large piece of paper, and starts pointing

to the names of horses and the word, "sire."

"This is where horses come from," he explains.

This is a horse family tree.

I think it looks like the map

to a blood cell.

When I was younger, my dad had a horse

and the horse never seemed happy. I'd walk back

to the pond where he'd stand in water

half way up his legs and drink.

Sometimes he would start swatting his tail

to get flies away from his rear, and it'd make

the sound that lightning makes right before it

strikes a barren asphalt road.

The horse always seemed happiest 

right before it rained. There was a patch of

nothing in his field, and when invisible hands

rolled the clouds together

like kneaded dough, he'd roll around in the dirt

until the patch of dirt was mud

and mud became the only thing in the field

besides the pond.

Grass lay down flat like a green ribbon

on a head of brown hair and the chestnut horse

kept rolling, not caring he is swallowing mouthfuls of mud.

I'm sitting in the loft of a barn reading German for Beginners,

occasionally looking up to see exactly where horses come from.