The Altar Of The Hoof

© Evan Elpus



Because I didn't duck and weave, or think a little quicker
I spent a dreary year one night, amongst the Friends of Flicka
How strangely alienating to be 'midst a people who
See themselves as disadvantaged, for their legs just number two!
And so, shuttled to the sidelines, yet content to be aloof
I was witness to their worship at The Altar Of The Hoof


And I learned that hoof disciples spend their lives in that dimension
Where just Dobbin and Black Beauty are deemed worthy of attention
While beneath the laughter manic and the conversation loud
Were the diagnostic features that define the horsey crowd:
The lanky female trainers, more like sun-bleached surfer boys
The hefty barking matrons, lifting rafters with their noise,


The kiddies, waiting, waiting, to be carried home to bed,
While their Mummy talks rope-plaiting till there's buzzing in your head
The spectrum of complexions, leather-brown through to magenta
And that fixed, unswerving focus on an equine epicentre.
Soon this attitude myopic would become a driving force
And the evening had one topic--- and that topic was the horse.


So hour on hour untiring went the same fixated natter
Not diverging by a whisker from the same old subject matter
(Question; when the evening's over, do they rush to lock the doors
Open up a bale of clover, and then eat it on all fours?)
I looked across at Ladyfriend, who'd brought me to this place
But 'love me, love my friends as well', was written on her face.

Dear reader, conjure up a fate as ugly as you'd wish;
Stranded on a penguin's ice-floe where they only talk of fish;
All the works of Leonard Cohen for your birthday, or, alas,
Hogtied in a Gaza basement, to be lectured by Hamas.
Have you had an invitation? It is up to me to warn yer
If the gathering is horsey, you're in Hotel California!