After it was all over, you decided
to take up foxhunting. Relaxed
you, you said. The rhythm
of hooves, feel of branches
against you face at thirty
miles an hour. The final discharge.
Territory meant nothing to you,
which was always bound to end
up with you clapped in irons:
the chase, on another’s land,
is at best treasonous. Still, your
recidivism rate was impressive
indeed. You called me last week
and asked for bail money, dried
haddock, and a good shave.
I could only send nine tails
and best wishes in your new home.
Robert Beveridge is a poet from Cleveland, Ohio.