Where Are the Horses?

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I have awakened him from a deep sleep 
slumped over in his blue vinyl and chrome wheelchair 

and wrenched him from a scene 
of young riders and sweating horses 

pushing up from somewhere 
in his ninety-two years. 

His body limp and still, 
the eyes flash suddenly full open, 
their whites yellowed by a century of sun, 
macular degeneration erasing all the lines. 

“Where did they go? 
Where did the horses go? 
They were supposed to tell me when they were going.” 

The electric horses fly by 
chrome dust in their wake 

panicky eyes fixed dead ahead 
on a green beyond description 

and summoned by the thunder in their hooves 
he rises from the chair—mounting the lead roan 
for one more ride in a dream without waking.