If we're not horses, what are we then?

It is friday at 5:40pm, my date flaked out on me, Madison and George are both out at friend's houses, and I am working on my manuscript while periodically forum'ing and reading V. by Thomas Pynchon. Whoo?

Here is some poetry.

Father is a man who
stood at the foot of my bed,
shouting as I stared at the
floor sitting cross legged.

Her father was different,
yet in a sense the same
as the dozens of hands
inserted needles, placed
a respirator over his mouth,
or clasped together to pray.

The hospital roof made for
a better waiting room. I was
only waiting to hear he was
dead.

She cried later that night, but
I couldn't. I didn't cry for
my father either.

--

She pushed her
ear to my ribcage. Dear
boy's bones, those sickly
protectors of my lungs
couldn't protect me.