Whinny like You’re 12
Hell yes I can ride. I was ridin when I fell off. – Cormac McCarthy
My belly’s flopped on a bed of hay — a pil- low on my bed; I draw horsies: burnt sienna, yellow, black; inhaling Crayola; dusky animal scent
Hell, yes, I can ride I am a barrel racer I am a buckaroo-ess
Did Cormac ride
when he was 12?
Rub the ponies, talk to them? Flat hand them sugar cubes, breathe into their nostrils,
pick green gunk from their feet?
Did he fall off?
I long to fall off — have to be on to be off.