On Forbidden Drive, Along the Wissahickon by Kelley White

The chestnut gelding nuzzles the blue-eyed
filly along the bridle path. Ah! This is too easy
a metaphor. You and I walk like heavy machinery.
My game knee clicking, you stopping at every lamppost
to stretch your back. (You look like a marathon
runner drenched in sweat and Gatorade looking
for his time on the great clicking clock.) But

the horses are beautiful. Velvet muzzles. (It’s a cliché
but there is no other word for it once you’ve run
the back of your hand against them.) And those long
lashed eyes. The filly bows her head. And for
the moment a gentle breeze wafts the bitter tang
of horse away from us and plays about the corners
my parted lips. Ah, they snort, not unlike your

evening noises when I turn in the nearly dark room.
(Used to be I’d wait, pretending sleep until you parted
the sheets. And then pretend an accidental roll
into your arms. And then.) Well, we are old now. Content
with just the little touches of comfort. (Almost. Though
there are those surprise evening invigorations. . .)
The girl on the filly rises from the saddle, urges her

horse up a little rise; the old man on the gelding digs
his heals into its side. There is nickering, blowing,
both horses straining against the reins. And they
are parted. You and I swing hands together for a moment.
Then we part.



Pediatrician Kelley White has worked in inner city Philadelphia and rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent collection is NO. HOPE STREET (Kelsay Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.