My Horse, Amanda: The Summer of the Watergate Hearings

by MciXinC Kumin
I wake in New Hampshire.
The sun is still withheld.
For six days Amanda has stood
through drizzles and downpours.
This morning she steams.
Little pyramids of her droppings
surround her. Dead worms
shine in them like forgotten
spaghetti, proof she has eaten
the sugar-coated cure.
Four dozen ascarids, ten strongyles—
I count them to make sure.
And all the while in Washington
worms fall out of the government
pale as the parasites that drain
from the scoured gut of my mare.
They blink open on the television screen.
Night after night on the rerun
I count them to make sure.