Dressage by Thomas McDade

Her shoulders sporting
reins of braid, blue
blouse sweat–dappled,
we’re back from riding
horses that forgot
how to gallop,
shades of those
we rode out west.
Our approaching
third shift
textile jobs do
boast that speed
as well as our boots
and clothes flying
off by ritual light
that our furnished
room’s curtain
whim controls.
Again, we find, post
tribute to dressage,
that tossed threads
don’t flash to mind
workplace
yarn and rolls
of cloth that endure
lack of fan or A/C too.
Soggy blue ribbons
maverick breezes
slap on quickly
evaporate but
perfectly match
her floor
strewn blouse —
buttons glowing
as if they’d
freed themselves.

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