He was born to ride that ass

though plow-handle legs rigid

flaunting bare feet, toes splayed,

might be read as reticence.

•

Through the four-way shamming

nonchalance pretend bugle blaring

his tune of eminence’s arrival,

he clopped. To to, to to, to toot!

•

Eschewing drive-through his ass

clopped bank lobby; Clop! Clop!

“Hooves on marble! So delicious!”

“I like your neck-beard.” teller said.

 •

“Unkemptness is a fashionable virtue;

a visual cue denoting ones calling

to a higher sect.” Poet explained.

To to, to to, to toot! To toot!

 •

With bewilderment he studied

his pointer pointing to infinity.

“Is infinity always up?” he inquired

without a clue. “Merits further

contemplation, a sonnet at least”

Clop, clop, clop! “Delicious!”