Francis The Talking Mule Plays The Part Of Henry’s Burro

Looking into his burro’s eyes, Henry he-haws
beneath the insouciance of burro flesh
concealed, hints of being a steed,

coldest of winds have blown the bristle,
stirring million-year-old memory of seaweed.
The field’s slow poison tolerating poison

has found her blood, dry desert-like years
belong to her foul, lingering emptiness
like Dubya’s hilarious war---

the legs fed on hate.
She shares the agony
of the young mules who die

for no good reason he-haw, he-haw.
I have no burro, Henry flicks his remaining ear
and as he turns and leaves you see his rear.