Bakelite Horses And Riders Poem by Anne Morin

Bakelite Horses and Riders

Ridden hard by cowboys and Indians,
a few tin soldiers and one molded beige girl,
my brother’s stable of plastic horses
raced ever forward,
guided through swaths of rose flowered carpet.

They pranced and they galloped, tails flying,
riders thrust forward, holding guns and fine bows.
I greatly admired two riderless blacks
reared up on hind legs - hooves smacking the air!
O brave rebels who would not join the fray!

A gold palomino with four white stockings
called out to be stolen: Was heard.
Fingers sneaked in a ride
while the god’s back was turned.
(Totally worth the smack.)

Seriously bowlegged,
one old cowboy sent glares.
Hat pulled down over dark face,
he was sitting it out on a nearby shelf.
We commiserated: Pouts and loud sighs.

Sometimes when I was lucky
my brother would offer this plucky beige girl
and a horse he’d decided was lame.
I didn’t care! We rode, screamed wild abandon,
from battle to smooth oaken floor.