A Pony for the Tribe

When will the promised
pony come, people
ask and ask and more
And more people are
haggling over it, more and
more people aspire
To manage it, more and more
the chatter and the rumours
multiply. When, when
Will the pony come,
the promised pony?
they ask, the bridle makers,
More and more of them
fashion its bridle, the scribes
are all bent on figuring
Its pedigree. It's really
a farce. When will it come,
when, the pony? More,
Plenty of people hope
it won't come at all.
The problem, they argue, is
Its imminence. When,
when will the pony
come? Others wonder —
Those who weave abortive plans
about it, more and
more of them, those who
Busily are rigging
the gallows for whoever
might be riding it.
The farce goes on, the
questions multiply, the plots
and the confusion —
When will the pony
come? I'll tell you. Simply look
at the sky, the clouds
Piling up, their folds
dark, loaded with lightning, when
the lightning flashes,
Then the pony will come,
as lightning in lightning,
thunder and earthquake.