PONY

By Shantell Powell

Thank you for calling Delta Reservations.

Shantell speaking. How may I help you when

I am pinioned to my seat by a need to pay rent?

Twenty-seven years old in the cubicle farm

Participating in the litany of welcoming.

It’s a slower death than the one my pony offered.

I was seventeen when I crested the hill saw double-barreled pony kick.

slow-motion cliche, life flashing before my eyes,

or was that the glint of sun on horseshoe?

Witnessed my inevitable death

but my little pony pulled her punch.

Granted clemency. Let me live.

When I crested the hill

met hind hooves at head level thought this is it.

I go out with a bang.

But the call centre makes me think I’ll go out with a whimper.

A lingering death after ten years, but

once more into the fray, all hotels are forwarding all calls to me.

While the fate of business travellers nationwide are in my hands,

HR pulls no punches.

My skirt is written up for being two inches too short,

and my casual Friday choice,

a Crystal Method t-shirt,

is written up for promoting narcotics.

Sweet pony, kill me now.

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Shantell Powell was raised on the land and off the grid. — We are honored to name her as a WINNER in ZO Magazine’s Decennalia Poetry Expo.