The Blackpool donkeys have given up
they have boarded jumbo jets
to be emotional support animals
for those lesser angels
that protect us wingless fliers.
They have opted out.
Once they used to plod from Blackpool pier
half a mile up, half a mile back,
day after day,
carrying kids and also others
that drank beer as they heavily jogged along
their thighs clapping sore ribs.
In a dulled daydream the donkeys moved
with downcast eyes,
backs spavined from gleeful bums and knees.
The sound of swishing waves
into a sea-green batch of somnambulates.
When they could carry no more -
some were trucked away
to be neglected unto death.
Now the donkeys have retired themselves,
have changed form.
When not flying business class
they surfboard in Hawaii,
their Bermuda shorts billow widely
as if tailored for four-legs.
Those that once rode them
on that uncultured British beach,
now take river cruises
to the more refined European cities
and hardly ever see a donkey,
but if they do
I hope that for a moment
they feel a knobby spine
again bruising their sophisticated
time-worn tight bottoms.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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