|Alan Cole:||Phil, What do you think about this?|
|Alan:||Gillian wearing a Cincinnati Bengals sweatshirt. I mean, Matt married into NFL royalty. If you're Gillian it's kinda like, Do I remain with the franchise of Vince Lombardi and 13 NFL titles that's been in the same location since 1921, or am I going to take the franchise that drafted Akili Smith?|
I remember the ponies in the distance.
I remember you talked of a war, no two wars, a failed marriage—
discretely, without force or grandeur.
This was before they amputated your leg, before the stroke.
You rolled your r’s, spoke of Oxford,
recalled driving in the Quaker ambulance unit in China,
where you saw an oil drum filled with severed limbs.
Pleased to have your approval, I rarely spoke.
You were like a father to me and I was grateful.
I remember the ponies behind the fence, muscular,
breathing, how they worried the grass.
The ponies said: This day astounds us. The field is green.
We love nothing better than space and more space.
Ah, they knew what I needed to know.
They lived in their bodies.
If the ponies wanted to kiss, they kissed.
They moved like the shadows of airplanes.
They knew no hatred, but fear they understood.
The sky was shot clear with blue.
After the picnic, we gathered the tablecloth.
As we left, I could still see the ponies,
crowding one another, free and unbroken.