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.